wisp

so weak i cant hold a book up to my face.
and this pen is difficult.
it's not the top of a lap that writes,
but the bottom of a ball,
leaking ink,
as usual.

i lie here, still
in bed, breathing slow and thin,
like the smoke from a discarded fag
in my ashtray, still burning,
in a graveyard of cummpled worms;
it's soul ascending to heaven in whispers,
and the rest is rust and dust to dust -
sticking to the earth and rot.

so faded and light,
i wonder how gravity still holds me down.
and my sinking eyes
(pale echoes of hospital vacuums),
there's no surprise,
when i gawp in a vacant mirror,
and cannot cry.

when i die,
i want to be buried in a graffitied cardboard box,
so there'll be nothing left of me to see,
except paper.