my ambitions are small things,
held and taken like pills. I am unstable,
crashing like clockwork;
I tell people it is for
the art, but I spend Monday nights alone:
the cats throwing
their faces at the well and laughinglaughing
at the way the skulls smear.
I have plans
I had plans
There are cities in the stars but I
will never see them
I am busy in hell,
pulling open my palms
painting the walls
making grandeur out of grandeur
out of shit.
the last pavilion 