In which our hero,
a man chiselled
by a chain-smoking Gepetto
from a wayward branch
of the Marlowe tree,
must distill the following into solution:
a job too many,
a swarm of shots,
rain,
Mexico,
slashes like prim ribboned cuffs
on a blonde,
dreams flung
through electrical mangles
from one vessel
to another.
A memory.
Hey dollface,
take it back.
I'm melting.
