this house stinks

I have not created
I have not create
I think of a moon that is not there
a drooping moon
with a howling hum
a moon that is a clock that is a melting clock

my insincere fingers
are my fingers
they rub and grate against me
they remind me of dumb tractors
and they rumble like:
"hand grasp pearls
was it wrought in peril!"

my passivity grew like hidden babylon
I found myself gorging on the clouds
vaguely thanking god
for a vicious metabolism
and up close the drooping moon said
you've misplaced memory,
he said, there is nothing
quite like beer in bed