Lost

freshly severed pieces of a morning's catch lie served, pale and cold
spoilt leftovers from last week pile up like corpses, stale and stinking

the lurking depths of the hollowing entrails have lost appetite


half a glass whiskey, many a burnt cigarette; they are today's palette
stories old and new, bleed on the canvas you'd imagined off my parched skin

the withering crevices of the dwindling hippocampus have lost love


crumbs of death and shreds of life cohabit the weeping blank spaces
you and me drown in the deafening rabble of the in-betweens

the curious semicolons of the rancid existence have lost poetry