On cameraphone, everyone looks pallid.
The living dead cluster round my porchlight,
all hipster shambles and bad dentistry.
I am at my attic window with a PSG1
and all the time in the world, baby.
Let's talk. When I ask your sign,
I can hear your atrophied higher brain functions
syruping like earthworms, trying to recall
old pathways and failing, blinded.
One of these days I will pinch you off
like a threadwart - the immaculate kick,
the punch-through, the drop.