Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick-
Tired eyes, an
aching w(hole)
in this relapse
Ebb and wane,
bowed before
a broken altar
Counting hours,
these days that
fall
A(nd I've always)
W(ondered)
A(bout)
Y(ou)
So I
Wait for redemption in
cold diffidence;
A word, to break through
my insignificance;
This need to feel something,
feel anything:
Fourty-two miles an hour.
Sixty minutes of jolted perspective
in a blinding neon
irrelevance.
Slide onward,
through deserted byways
and sodden, sulphurous dereliction.
Lights stream past
wound-down windows (to reverance) as
I tear down and around
blind alleys of