For twenty three years

there was a leak in the roof

I stuffed it with a plastic bag

when we first moved in

forgot then spent ten years

writing and drinking smoking

while it endlessly rained

mornings hungover on terraces

wandering the east afternoons

leaving the lotus eaters

to languish alone

one night around eleven

I went out they were still there

what are you doing here they asked

in the cheap lurid neon

of an Amsterdam night

the dumb music blared

I was bored I said

of writing and drinking smoking

no one knew I wrote and drank

I never learned Danish

or Dutch or Portuguese

or French or Spanish

but I lived there 

I asked Rita

if I could

sleep with her

tonight she said

yes 

the right of every man 

to sick himself on the world

no rainbows in the low sky

the water is feared

they resemble the rain

wind torn salt savaged

drinking and smoking

there’s nothing to confess 

fix it if it works  

and if it’s broken

hide it in the shadow

of the Golden Age

 

oh worthless acts of living

January was a death sentence

today it was warm

the sun reminded us

the conversation’s dull

but no one loves them like family

nothing upstairs is a waste of time

even if you can’t read

he fell and wanted more

even though it hurt

there is less

to this new

what they

had in mind

when books

burned

see who’s

scared

to go to bed

before

they’re

tired