spilt whiskey strips the varnish from the bar,
smiles cause wrinkles.
Temporarily buried in the chaos of questions
all options eat either your flesh,
your bones, or your skin.
I cant shut myself in this chest
if I'm not sure if it's made of wood, or card.
an unexpected, completely foreseeable
collision with consciousness,
for the want of a solid conscience.
So you have a theory?
Unfounded and shallow,
like my empire! It is merely me.
Room for improvement,
swing at me with
a mole hill in a garden.
Occam's razor led me here
and it sends me away,
disproving itself, still correct.
of friction, not attraction.
Of collision, not excitement.
not from raising the dead
but from burying the living.
Spilt whiskey strips my skin
if i'm not careful.
And I'd rather age from smiling
because it is not me in the chest,
it is the body, and it needs to breathe!
Another one written on a train... 'the body' in the last line refers to the church.