I think that it’s finally time to admit / I have played in a pantomime
I wish now and then, / For the rain.
Mamma when young / sewed clothes as she sung.
I cut your hair when you died so while you lay / resting you’ll look like yourself. The coffin
Your eyes are as blue / As an 80-year-old shoe / That ran the Santiago trail
the gaping maw of unimaginable void
The war we face / To let time consume, / Or wield it.
The skeletal man walks / Wing-tip shoed to work.
She reaches up with twisted hands / And wicked claws, glinting sharply.
Cute girls smoke cigars. / They cough at cigarette fumes