Late night drunk
on the ghostly bones
of a red wire
wrapped around my finger
wrapped around my
consciousness
disarmed but ticking
still.

Late night and
dreaming of ringlets
scented like flowers
vanilla skin,
a fascination
with death
dying
and dissection.

All these years
creeping through my bones
slowly disused aqueducts
that fed some other lifetime
streams of
streams of consciousness.