you see
idont give a damn
you look at me
holy emblem of waste
granite fuck beyond idea or purpose
proletariat or anarchist
I’ll sit legs crossed
hair spiked up like
million million hands up
in the air for manna
only it never comes
you see
we are merely relics of the infinite
retrospectively the truth
is so simple
in this interlude of rustling
there are only moments
faint improbable moments
visiting the tender pouch of consciousness
and to sit is just to wait
for fire and nothingness to fuse
into a scar of memory
I sit rather than lie supine
because I know the sky’s lips
are there nibbling the souls
I prefer to sit today
to catch your stare
like hard bright
moonshine in m y
face.

Nihilistic Poetry