the world is what we attach ourselves to

have you

ever wandered home one night,
looked for loot and found all uptight?

not a morsel to be found,
the wheels of life, run
aground.

ever strolled then upon a neighbour's terrain,
looking for crumbs,scraps stretched across like the secret mole of lorraine.

have you

ever bit your lip till your breath taste red,
had your stomach twisted, turned and tilted with hot lead?

ever held your hips as they shrivelled sin-wards,
or bit your nails till your fingers yelped tin-words?

ever stretched your sack upon the winter's sun,
looked for gold. rice. water.
and found.
just.
none?

ever gazed up at the dried blue sky,
and wished for vultures. angels. God himself.
somebody.
to bid you a lie?

have you

ever looked upon a stranger with lust in your eyes,
for just a piece, a square, a morsel
of that pie or
slice?

ever gazed at the difference all around,
wondered
last week,
last month,
last year,
last life,
to justify
just. why. exactly
was your pitiful fate?

what then is this hunger you wish to write about,
as you dig into your lunch
you ripe, pipe, type
of witing-lout?

what achievement seek you on that blank space of sea,
with words, idioms, metaphor
when its mostly just really
lavish black tea?

doing a great thing arent you now,

thinking ink could ever replace blood on the revolutionary plough?

think again, sir, please do,
for your words are like,
nothing,
but,
super,
ghoo.

but still, writing selectively about vagabonds powers you, my son.
be it farcicial, nonsensical and categorically without pun.

get a life dear boy, get a life, i say!

or get your hands dirty and
slay the life, without the balet.

the world is what we attach ourselves to,

nothing more, nothing less,

and you my friend,

are still too attached to self,

to confess.