It seems nowadays
That all one need do
In order to make a name for yourself
Is the same thing over and over
To buy the same bread from
The same market stall
Over and over
Commit the same crime
In the same signature style
Over and over
Write the same poems
About the same thing
Over and over
Until eventually you
Run out of steam
The market closes
The rain stops falling
Blood runs cold
Dogs sleep
The cars run out of gas
Dust devils making the horizon
Disappear
And then what
How do you define your remaining time
Here
A season changes
And the windows are closed
For the first time in a while
I do not care for the accepted rule
My writing remains centre-less
Orbiting as planets around my brain as dying star
The coffee pot is dry
A policeman is shot on the TV
Someone downstairs bangs and bangs and
Bangs
And in my head I make jokes
That I will never tell anyone
Because they’re just
Too
Goddamn
Funny.