Empty, Man Poem by Af Williams

I had a photo in my bag, it was heavy stuff, man.
Empty catwalking streets of rage.
Empty is a rhinestone-studded staircase of unequal stairs.
Empty does what hope can only dream of.

Man, the man called my father prophesied from his armchair:
"the world is Guinness dark, wait for your calling and answer,
never expect except the same implanted fear of realised fear".
I said "we're too near the bubble, pop, the rim laps against our shins"

Empty watched me walk into the desert,
with two battered cats, redcurrant backs,
perhaps a song or two.
The photo is too heavy man, the photo is collapse.

I had a drink with two coloured folks,
the green one jokes on the red-pill-faced man's dime: "Time chokes".
Over-brewed tea-stained teeth.
The capital of empty is the back of the photograph.

One time a man called ‘Pa' asked the woman called ‘Ma'
"what are stars but pistachio shells" split
for panoptic family home mantle piece photos?
Man had a screw in his dome.

The woman chiselled ‘Ma' had a voice like torn wood,
doors feared/obeyed/frayed, when she left for the stars,
ma only made the upper-atmosphere.
The bar is infinite, man, and empty space immaculate.

Empty is a ghost in chain-mail enarmour.
Too many dogs bark next door at the kettledrum-headed father.
Pop, the lights are cigarettes, electric guests and darkness concubines,
half-digested thoughts spewed now dulling out the chrysalis,
half-digested thoughts, pop, are black unreflective sands,
eyes rubbing together, shifting interstep, man.

Empty watched me walk into the desert space,
stamp-sized and cosy,
only me, the white expanse and Dorian's shadow adoringly.
The painting is too heavy, pop, Empty is a lodestone.
Rings are trinket things.
We hold nothing we can keep but grudges.
Future is made up, mascara smudges
and digested thoughts for food:
who deserves desertion?
destitute destiny,
prostituted payday solutions
to simple but effective poverty?

Empty watched me walk into the desert;
Brutal watched me walk out with Empty's hands in sandbags.

The drop was too heavy pop, wherever she is, is Empty, man.