Srtike out a coiling serpent poisoned umbrella handle.
Clasp tight scrolls and curves and wishes and spell burned autographs.
Curdle sweet memories in today’s horrorzone.
A pond of fear. How deep? How dark?
A tree stump, cut back too much, it never grew back.
They don’t wink at me in the morning.
A smile is a once monthly gift and usually with strings attached.
My real prize is painful skin,
I can’t grasp, couldn’t think of picking up the guitar.
Like the Singing Detective living in my right hand.
My name is not JOB.