My lips.
Always cracked.
For my mind,
Not my word.
Bath water,
Never gets cold.
Nothing to find,
Nothing to hurt.
Odd underwear.
Near dusty make-up.
Never touch beauty,
Not these fingertips.
Dreaming so slowly.
Sleeping even less.
Still falling out empty.
Still incising my lips.
Cigarettes burn longer,
And hotter than my breath;
Brighter than my eyes:
It’s nothing to quit.
And some too-soft key,
Man-made in minor,
Or sold sonnetised:
Becomes bullshit.
Fish bowl journeys.
Mocking motion.
Am I still proof?
Or until.
Numb is numbed.
Static flows.
Move re-move.
and still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem