the king of stuff is high on
a mountain-top

city-smoke billowing out of his mouth

his heart pumps ice-water
his feet keep the time
his apathy is magnetic

and the sky will fall while
the king of stuff is still standing

of that you can be sure.

Every drive home from
a day spent without the
sweet caress of my love
is so cruel and terrible
and I often wonder how
I can bear to stand it,
save for looking ahead
to another day with her.
But even then, my
fingers are sore from
the cut of another woman,
and she can feel, and
she can tell, but I know
she’ll never leave me.
Still, that short drive
is made long, and the
silence, oh so cruel
and terrible.