Friend of my friend,

you are as close to a headache as a splinter has ever come.

Please stop reading us your poetry.

_ _ _ _, please.

Flooded, or The rain has come to wash away our dusty footprints.

Bathed in rain water, christened if you will, all my belongings learn to float.

This is the end of all the things that used to make noise, those things that made me shiver.

Yet its quieter than I expected.

I used to dream of boys in blue. Fleets arriving for some other siren's call. Their lights drawn as they crashed down the staircase, mouths pouting. I always knew I would be running toward them.

asking, sorry, begging,

"no no no, please wait, they are almost finished. don't you understand? can't you see what we are doing?"

but now. its over.

with two inches we can hope for nothing more.

and it was to the tune of a different blue.

how strange,

no sirens, just quiet pitter patter.

If anyone ever objects, let this be remembered

in the bathroom

of a dormitory

she took you in her mouth

I always felt that was strange

not that you were getting head,

you and her, I mean.

we all need to be devoured from time to time,

to have that part of us returned to a womb, especially one that doesn't resemble our mothers

A wet sharp graveyard smelling of alcohol

a place to bury strange nights

or strange hers

I guess there was a time when you too

were unpredictable.