Acanthus
or tobacco
leaves,
something
broad
enough
to hide
you.

My Bowery Loft

So here I am in my Bowery loft,
start the day with a start-up and end it with a Zoloft;

There on my wall is a Damien Hirst,
John Lennon's head and Yoko Ono's purse;

When I open my window I can hear the sound
of Joey Ramone turning in the ground.

lies

Because every single one of them lied
And flattered our drooping national pride;

Because the best thing since sliced bread
Is watching your white skin turn to red

As you sit and get pissed on a beach in Spain
And take back control, then lose it again.

Cherish

your frailty;

the crack

in the

mirror

your rice

paper 

heart

within

that 

place

you 

hide away

is the 

fissure

that opens

and

gives

away

your soul

it is 

the valley

from 

which

we came,

the rift

from 

whence 

we all

depart.