Go Well (or Dead Friends)

.......Bread broken
by hands as dry as the cowboys lunge,
and later they hold
quiet good byes
over a cold ear.

For veins of wine,
the grifter's fallacy
belongs beneath the glitter of
phosphorus, where treacherous words
escape like bats from a cave.

And the audience gawk
the rorschach fleet
swirling against the moon;
the black sky heaves and crawls,
steeped in unholy metaphor.



.......Good byes don't hurt,
not like I'm sorry.
God knows I've uttered a few.

Like when I learnt
that breath can be forced
into dead lungs

and the metronome
thumped from hibernation,
but that doesn't matter any more.