I do not have the energy
Or the desire
Or the effective concentration
To set about typing up
Rather to dwell
In the loss of self-control
Caught up in the devilment
Of doing nothing at all
That is other than feeling
Sorry for myself
Coming over all melancholic
With the story left in the wings
Where he sings the songs of loss
Has his joss sticks at the ready
As the unsteadiness settles
And the butterflies land on dust
Rust covered energies abound
To the sounds of plucked guitars
And slow-puffed cigars, in the urban
Surroundings of yesterday’s moon
