happy 30




happy thirty
happy death
happy where are we

I have traveled
inside a cave
crushed inside skin
dried patches of skin
hands callous
the incurable stink of walking
over distance
dark distances

I have traveled
in dangerous caverns
falling, screaming

for thirty years
closing in on those
scarce drips of essence
those impossible puddles of truth

inside a cave

where I begin to feel like shadow
dark layer upon dark layer
going nowhere

I already hear them singing:

happy happy thirty
happy birthday
joyous shadow
lost lost lost in time





nihilistic poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than


the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same


he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
to fit the term


pleasure, yes
but excess?


but I’m not
here to
or compare


simply to
on my twenty-
finished year:


‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’

wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?