Hiroshima Hero

Hiroshima hero headlight flash. I breakdown into myself every few months. I eat moths from the seams of my clothing; they turn into butterflies in my stomach when I walk the same paths we used to walk. Detoured and faltered into a thousand memorials for my former self. We can’t bicker away the serfdom of last week. Angels cluster on these corners as I am enveloped in my cloister. Rags woven from every gray hair plucked from my head. Lithium for tomorrow. Speedster fiend in the middle of the night, pacing myself to sleep. This glass is half full of booze and tears- the other empty space yearning for the touch of fresh lips- a new taste- a kiss from a predatory mouth that would eat your inner child from your climax. I wish he and she and them and everyone hadn’t left me that time again. Sanity is measured in the minutes of the day you dedicate to work, and somehow avoid play. This score was written in the blood of elephants, hours after the elections. I present it to you as an offering, as a meal, as an attempt to justify the fact that I can do everything and have chosen idleness. Hiroshima hero headlight deadbulb.