dancing kangaroos
wooden tables on rotten
cigarette buds i think
i ought to empty my
stomach content
i’d rather bury the
prancing squirrels
in little coffins of led
to let all the wonderful
dreams sink away
to unknown depths
just remembered what used to
make us happy crawling snails
i pick them up & crush
the cozy cocoon to mild
flesh cold & wet at the same
time despair ending
what little is left.