i am the man who
stays in this room
taking pot-shots
from his cowardly battleship
lighting a candle
the darkness retreats
into a hole in my head
webbed with slug trails
i nurture many silverfish
i dance with them
i scoop tasteless food into my mouth
under the blankets
my body curled like a fiddle head
a tight flame
every night i listen for a tap
at my window
i am the man riding
on a crones back
who has no belief in soul or spirit
only in what is horribly real and ordinary
"does it hurt you when i does this"?
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