Luck – Tim Frank

January 4, 2026

I wrote a book without words
that everybody read
in their dreams
on beds of childhood fire.
I laughed at a joke
in a tongue
of esoteric runes.
I won the Nobel prize
for bombing crystal cities
in a desert without views
as old men shuffled by.
I drove a car
on a star
in a morgue
filled with clocks
and dirty dishes in my trunk.
I marched
against police
with a thousand soundless steps
like a cool movie screen
fighting in the gloom.
I swung through the trees
without branches
like a monkey in a wheelchair
made of diamonds.
I fought my lover
with a loaf of leavened bread
and she bled
without blood,
crying like a dozen
hungry ayatollahs.
I breathed without air
in a sky without colour,
then towered like tsunamis
in the gutter of our age.
I’m a lucky man, I guess,
with never-ending blessings
falling at my feet.