I write
I write often
Of an ethereal figure
He has no name
His presence
I can’t fathom
Only feel
Through the words I impart
Into the folds of napkins
On nights of drunken stupors
And banal escapades
Riveting in exaggeration
Dim bulbs and iridescent neon
Grim eyes with hairless brows
Fifty kilogram weight on my sole
Lower than the floor I stand on
Only then,
And only ever then,
I pray
For Clarity and Truth and Purpose
Sans scripture
Solely silence
“It was not written for me”
Cloudy, unwarranted comfort
In the fiction we tell ourselves
WILDsound Festival 