Icarus's blog: "Just South of Blue."

I'm two cigarettes and a rhyming line of iambic pentameter from perfection.

I gave up smoking years ago, I never took up the rhythm and rules.

Sometimes you have to leave the hair in the sink, the dirt on the walls, the wires
exposed.

The lids off the nap drink.
The pans in the sink.

The leavings that blew in with the daggers and windchill.

The sad girls you know by name, but do nothing to help.

The chances you didn't take.

The game ending strikeouts.



I live for the muddy edges of beaten down heaps.
Of rust-bucket stallions, and the pulverizing grind of ascension.