Sitting at a table talking about Ndia. “I’m bored” no luck for the honest conventions of siblings.

Don’t tell me what I mean. And don’t guess at what I said. You large handed duck. Clumsy and guessing at your 28 year old humanity. Runining my night. Going and coming. Waste less, fruitless. Boring a cheap hole in my heart. “Do you remember Cherry Bar?” – it was a shot. Perhaps not well fired. Broken pots hold memories of before. Before us, voids in the bowels of gutlessness. Truth, clutching at charisma, turned poison at your untranslatability. Your moron face, gorgon eyes, timid and fraught with error and hope. Roll on, with your ones. Incalculable, pointless and inert. My wish that you’re gone. Pizza and all. Charmed I’m sure.