empty houses

a stack of shuffled madness
in-between motions and after-emergencies
long-take dialogue scums
wine underscoring the cultural disaster
habitual cheques overdrawn
defamiliarized wounds
cockatoo jet set in cafés swill
in gutbuckets overflowing
your narrow ankles on micro-theater screens
playing to empty houses
comically taxed beyond salvation

What I’m Reading:

We no longer washed, brushed our teeth,
or picked a scab—just him, him, him.

— D. Nurkse / “Caligula”