Grace Staubus

Running around in circles sitting in hedges eating burnt ice cream and cold coffee.
The smaller things in life are all the things in life.
A word a look.
nothing left.
Why there could be anything anyway?
Falling down stairs screaming.
Singing along to sensless noise.
Laughing at death.
Sleeping, not sleeping, eyes hurting.
Manick terror at nothings.
Clapping to the rhythm of destruction.

Dancing till morning and fainting in choirs.
Reading for weeks straight, then nothing.
Inspiration to carve peel smash.
Brains falling through glass ceilings.
Nothings, everythings, absence.
Madness and hight, defining until nubbins float downstream to everything.
Touch scars and kiss teeth.
Lips outlining the downtrodden men thinking their boys.
a hedgehog called grace.
Soft freedom ignored by commercial tyres.