The shutters are down

The shutters are down

Cold black dawn

I have a soft-boiled head

Sputem

In the bowl

Hounded by trolls

Riding Beezers

With fat exhausts.

Blowing town

Might be good

Falling is necessary

When the legs go,

Trestle tables

Are better suited

To fretwork.

Restless spirits

Fly with me,

Pigeon toes

Keep me grounded

In something approaching

Reality

Which is a dog's dinner

I would rather

Leave uneaten.

Press me into service,

Without purpose

I am lost.