Coasters

Past the point of good ramblings,
ice tumbling into

background headaches,

And an ability to take advantage 

Of anything, we slip through the things

before or as they happen,
Either way

in the slowest mile, quantitatively

Waiting to ignore

What is nothing

But devastation

And the feeling of knots

That could be holds to climb on

Or whatever it is that is left of our guts.  

rip and p, p

Charts and graphs and songs and the heart
Are all a flat line.
You could say there's work we have to do,
But that would be a lie.
There's no such thing as compulsion
When we're out of time.
But if that's just a construct anyways
We might as well all be a sign.