Out of fiction
Left with the three page-snore pace
Of reality
Only now I read the words of poets
And have charged myself into a graveyard shift cycle
Where I awake at midnight
And feed on the darkness

The winter mist frosts Ipanema
I have a strange view today
From above, the sea seems contained
The gentle squeezing of gravy in a sealed bag
Or the septic fingers displaying a silicone implant
(Jesus! where did those come from?)
The conversation continues below, my longest one
Without sun, the cock