shan't sleep it away outside the snow is knee-deep a wild, cold, blowing day red rag in her hand someone in the hall photographs on the walls drunk all of the time a cold panic shooting through like an inebriated batman in a struggle with death itself over an old, half-sunken grave in the cemetery of the chapel a diagnosis of neurasthenia scrimshankers and degenerates hands burned red from wringing it was becoming a tic like the astrological signs the empty sky and the stars not a sound in the world i wish i could be at home but you don’t get to choose #dadaist #poetry