I find my enemies in the emptiness
of pickle jars.
The absence of a meaningful existence
is at its clearest
in the flutter of pigeon wings
on a concrete backdrop.
Painted on my frontal lobe,
the image remains the same
"Movements in grey on grey"
and I keep looking for the art.

I hold up my blank paper in defence
as if to say:
'look what could be!'
Nobody does.
Emptiness is not the
hottest show in town.
I hear my eyes growing dark,
I hear my skin wrinkling.
In the distance, someone laughs.
It might have been me,
I can no longer tell.

There is an ashen smell
like rocket fumes,
gunpowder and sand.
A memory of sound remains
like infatuation,
like irony.

I read the eulogy for my empty room:
"dot, dot, dot!"
Long pause for emphasis.
Then the sarcasm.
Then the end.