Literature
The Asymmetric Contour
The Asymmetric Contour
There are two courses,
A tiny soft pill each day
For a year, thirty seven
Sour horse pills over
The next month, there is no cure.
Dried blood caked black
At the side of my face,
Sometimes I lay still,
This suggests I was battered
To death by blunt instrument,
Fingers folding around whiskey bottle
Suggest otherwise, I pour
Myself a drink, a drink.
Inspector Jack Lemon writes
It off in a little black book.
I write down my dreams sometimes
I made you up, for keeps.
One night, darkness woke me,
The black thrilling mass of extinction
May have even thawed me.
What are names then,
When I can rub one out