a shadow moved across my eye or mind, I don't know which,
could have been my father's shade; my mother, the bitch,
put it out of the house and now it follows me, I think,
to find a home somewhere without the stink
of death around it, but that can't be,
can it? no, now there's only me.
but, then again, where is this me?
death marks existence, but can it be
two certificates confirm you were here? Think
of birth and death, with nothing left except your sink
full of ideas, thoughts, profanities, that scratched your itch,
and you hurled at passersby who don't remember: that's a bitch.