LENS
My life revolves around Rod Stewart
and his hopeless optimism,
cascading over my cut strings
and broken back as I lie in bed
next to this week's dream, this week's peace,
this week's light and hope of rebirth.
I wish my computer was a typewriter
just so it didn't play music
and print pictures of people
who refuse to exist even if they want to -
and they do.
My brother hanged himself with a speaker cable
on the last day of June, the demon sun
holding his hands for the first time in months;
when we emptied his room we found pictures
of the three of us shopping for cameras,
photographs-turned-aeroplanes floating gently
over our heads to someone else.
Home is where the art is,
and we sail inspiration's stormy sea
to be with you; to be free.
