Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough.nThey'll never stop their running.nGunning for their brothers.nThis house is a hostel.nIt is peaceful, but it's always emptying.nBoys all want to be someone.nnHaven't you heard? I am a flightless bird.nI am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire.nIf pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit,nin formal attire, I'll score you a string ensemble.nnI saw my son at seventeen,nThe shutters made projections on his naked frame.nAnd now at twenty-five,nHe simply cannot stay away from the ketamine.nWith makeup on his sores,nHe spends an hour a day composing little eulogies.nSometimes he sends me letters,nBut it's mostly garbled phrases and apologies.nnBut haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird.nI am a liar, feeding facts to a false fire.nIf pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit,nIn formal attire, cue the Bulgarian men's choir.