It don’t go well with me when the heat repeats, the days all sweat and sugar. I don’t do well without imploring the smoke to erase. I build the symbol in effigy, counting out the ashtray, burning down the day. The wind sits still but for a breeze for afterthought, sweat beading despite the sitting and the shade. Wasps are climbing in the wind chimes, bees are landing on my brow. Done is done, but here I am somehow. The words done with me, the blank empty even when we fill it. The song in smoke and angles.
I should be able to count the days, I should be able to measure it in moons. Now just a conundrum I can’t shake, a story that was only a story in my head. The avenues bursting into fireworks, the days laden with grease and heat, even the real people ill at ease. Fiddling around with the settings while every road burns at once. Scribbling in the margins while waiting around to die.
It is always this bitter, it is always this bad, a rash from gravel and bruises from household physics. Add the gnashing and general unpleasantness, I get the separations and the scorched earth proclamations. I tire even of being tiring, I can only imagine how bad it is if there’re options. Just the staticky signal and the sloppy hand, line by line, tear soaked and trapped in stupidity. The volume turned up and the knob broke off. This archetype of tedium, as sure the return to dust.