23. last century albums
sometimes late at night
i can hear the poems
laughing and pounding the floor
up in the attic crawl space
partying, wedged in with
filthy plastic bins
crammed with souvenirs
from the dead,
and bat droppings, and mouse turds —
nearly 100 years worth of
august heat, february cold,
dust and breath and roofing nails
jutting in like talons
over their messy heads
they probably drink straight
from the whiskey bottle
passing it round
swapping spit
and smoking clove cigarettes
in their black berets
(pretentious gits)
making fun of the crap
i scribbled in those diaries and journals
aping now this family clown
and that one (so many)
moldering and yellow in
last century albums
on those nights it’s their fault
i can’t sleep, their voices
weaving like poisonous snakes
through my fever dreams
