THE FUNK

you are not very much yourself today. all your silent games are itchy-
and when your cigarette dissolves, you are still here, believing in magic
and bottomless vaginas that a flat earth would envy
and your hornets are honey-blind from raiding
the sun.
you are cooped up in your penalties. bering strait into archipelagos 
that Fire your Island… But never feed your cats when you're astray.
II
your gloomstick mercies are the turpentine that eats the gallery
punching through a maelstrom of permanent things
until they beg You to put an End to Them.
Irony is appeased,but your pillows have no sleep in them
because your dreams are Fear’s Bitch
after a Scotch, neat…
with an untidy
alibii.