by Chris Biles

I can only shiver
when I come home
to the cold
in the same clothes I’ve worn
for the past week,
fingers fumbling when I can’t
find a spark to light my cigarette,
when I realize
I’ve gone again
to the moon and back,
yet the clouds
still haven’t changed.
All the ghosts are saying:
lie down,
lie down, sing your song,
but don’t cry out
for the lips of another.
I say:
I’ll put my mouth where the money is,
will drink the dreams from any
will only lie down
if there’s a dirt bag there
to spread his filth
as he spreads my legs.

Because I like to feel weightless,
a bird with hollow bones.

But now, in the gloom, I realize
all my marrow
really is gone,
and I am more than weightless,
more than hollow,
I can more than fly.

Help me, I can’t help but float away.

I’ll listen
to those ghosts now
I’m tired of this dirt and these clothes,
now I understand
the clouds are only painted on my walls,
the wanting moonlight
always leaves me cold,
and I shiver, I shake as I fumble
day after day
for some spark
only found in faraway stars.

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