Stockholm, Sweden


I’m fighting a spiritual morale problem
Yesterday it all seemed probable, doable
The worm has turned and staring without humor
Past the lights and charmless walls I concede
I hate when this time comes

Every trip, every tour, holds this rotted fruit
Fallen and kicked, waiting weeks in
We must pass it in the rumbling night
Near a reflectorless motor way mile marker, invisible
To the sleeping coffins that glide by
The next crypt waiting for a flourish of activity
Acceptance ?!!!

I spit the drying pulp of it in the nearest face
And wait for the reaction
Insanity at its definition smiles
Counts the unspattered few

I’m walking a hungry Russian wolfhound
On a fraying leash that cuts my palm
Wishing the shine would remain
Might as well cut the fucker loose
Watch him disappear into the waiting brush
Flex my stiff hand without company
Without thought of replacing him with another lesser beast,
Never liked lap dogs anyway.