A 2 pm morning I'm greeting
the end of meaning.
Open my mind just a crack, and
look what crawls in.

Now I'm trying to keep my head above your dead pool, 
deep end.


I sold myself in
in on the joke of the spin.
But this burned-in cynical grin
is fading again.


Turning the hooks to catch nothing,
I'm let off.
You live in your head and love no-one,
at all.
Spotlit marks for your self-styled
comic book sharpshooter
blind spots before.


I sold myself in
in on the joke of the spin.
Now this burned-in cynical grin
is fading again.


Peeling those tired eyes
to steal and refine some sleek pitch line.
Wide of the mark, pressed to define
Connect the dots,
line by line.