something drunk...

Ride and follow
Tracks are a pull
I have no choice
do I?
I miss spots
and beds and
home

I could tear against
the cold glass
passing greenery
soon to be supermarkets
I could wreck the inevitable

I have fists of
swollen spitwads
Try they will
damage structures
fucking hell
try as I will and
I will move stones

I let me be moved
and float
and drift in
suds, drift in soapy
whiteness caked
in black liquids
fish are governors
I praise they're fingers
kiss their pink toes

I move and stop
when my heart says so
I move and stop
when my feet buckle
and arches falter...
michael the archangel...