the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century


          Go away, you rainsnout
          Go away, blow your brains out

there are colder months
there are moments more painfully frozen

in retrograde-motion starry skies

vodka doesn't burn any less
and pills still bring sleep
just the same

but tears resolve
themselves in patterns no other time
can hope to match


your days clamber and bunch
themselves up hairless, mewling,
and blind to their siblings but painfully
aware of their own desire
to escape the box of conformity

fall to the floor among newsprint
scraps of someone else's life
and wait to be scooped
into a hopeful child's oversized
when god turns his back


the swelter

of remembrance clinging
tighty-whitey cotton
soaked in kerosene to places
you don't want clung

to always hits hardest right
about now, when you're closer
to ending than beginning;

when possibility is
all around you,
but nowhere at all,
and you realise
now's just as good a time
as any to gather the last
of the seeds you'd sown
so long ago.

harvest is nothing more
than cutting losses of keeping
fate at bay and fooling yourself
into believing you've got a say
in what happens next.

so you play the game
and always arrive a year
a month
a day
a second
too late to stave off damnation,

cuz life's just a mother
fucker like that,