My Cause Is Noble And Just

makes game of choice sits in cold piss with sticky hands
watching morning crawl the bottom blue
gases and message tickle written on his back
protests azeida says or says or natalie or something
oh if these cold feet could only
the warbling coo of unseen pigeons
smell of creeks and south street steakhouse
either neithers surround me
who can say how any more?
and how can say why?
it's beginning to get to be a bit too late to name this