When your head is a mush
of wet cement about to become concrete
with steel pin shot between spines
floating above a falling lump of kryptonite
your eyes become too slow to close them,
again you feel lost in a broken time.
You crow your way into darkness
10 000 miles above Zen crashing at 800 mph
you have to, you want to reach out, what cannot be found
what cannot be stilled.
you suck up all the power, that grotesque great courage to go on
cause you crow, crow by crow.
For Max Porter
Fastfood romantics 
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