Colourless.

Years from these days  
the sky was black    
and grey and dank    
and stale from swooning,    
spooning wastes of flesh    
that stumble from and into    
back alley ways. They would drag sweet Pennies    
on their infected arms.    
It was as if, looking back, life was worthless    
even then.  
Un-    
   
magnified.    
   
Settle for height on the building    
- sixty flights of stairs    
or one elevator,    
with a bottle of freshness and life,    
watching ants.    
There is no worming the way out,    
another woman with her head in    
   
an oven.    
   
A few snips and I’m hairless    
as once I was born,    
screaming into the bottle and    
into the air.    
My white hands wide    
as if spite would show mercy.    
The shit is empty and overflowing.    
   
Toes rape the edge of the wall with jittering.    
No laughter escapes to protect bruises.    
One large world full with    
weightless    
situations    
I cannot evolve from.    
If I was wrong,    
if I was not    
this merry sphere’s place for hitting,    
I sure as Hell will drop    
heavy    
as an over-used punching bag.