I shook cool hand of trembling death
A screaming pause at boiling place for skulls,
Frisson sent my thoughts quivering,
Single penny for my hubris,
Tripping past temporary poems.
Simply gulag recreation.
What’s half-life of a soul?
Is it worth the fifteen minutes
Built on widow’s web of lies and deceit?
Self-abuse or myself amuse,
Anticipation sets me free
To ruin mise en scène,
Drip paint on actors crowding stage
Waiting on blurred marks for their cue
Forgetting lines, so improvise
Possibilities left behind.
Shivering stopped as he let go,
Maybe next time accept invitation.