Distillation

Eternal immutable shadow,

In the black glass pool,

Impenetrable fortress,

Sacrosanct between the lily pads,

Lovers lie down, divine in the ectoplasm,

With sticky fingers, hairy holes and holy holes,

I’m full of holes, like the leaking milk carton.

Embracing the mud pits of the mind,

Like quickening sands, leaking liquids into my hands.

 

Saddled infinite in the black hole,

Of dreary days and nights,

Endless holes and bloated pink tubes of water,

Inviolable, fictitious and artificial,

Where the constant churning of concrete

Burns its buzz into the back of my head,

While inside the bashing of bones goes ahead.