Supple madness professes its sinful love for solitude
by plucking its dream hairs off, one by one,
and delightedly sucking the marrow from each follicle hollow.
Perchance the dandruff creeps, lip by lip, lunch by lunch
until tripping Daedylus up with lucid luck.
From the train wreck again
came Nosferatu, our warrior hermit,
and his taut monotony.
That which bludgeons our nature, when we let it.
Conscious innocence lies better than the most Catholic mass.
It’s okay. Lie supine, drink your wine.