We are locked in a glassy 8,
not a grain more or less
of change to expect;
hours to twentyfours- repetition progresses.
I am you.
Desperation (dug so deep the depression could pass
for greed) rips my spirit off,
adding inches of [my] will
to the Prado the devil drives.
I’m left to zombie
my way from where I spend my nights-
the fat 5`x6` line at the end
of insanity into insanity in the kind arms of
groupthink.
I hope always to wake up on the bed
‘s righter side, slip into whatever
travel-box I posses and drive.
Sense, time and happiness forbid me
to think meaning into words like ‘possession’.
I seize the steering will, to work.
There’s nothing outlandish about routine,
don’t pretend when [even] you look like yesterday,
Kafka, up your tools and save the poetry
for sunshine. Where will it take me, cigarette-high or change?
Save it for the road
through this dark cycle Edison didn’t die for.
We die changing bulbs
in this same dark room, where Light is only pictured.
Here comes the sun?
well, halo, miss too-intimidatingly-beautiful?
It’s easier to believe you are not here
because I’m used, and laziness is lying she’s atrophy.
She is dead-man-acting-dead convincing
and to believe you pressures my skull open, but that’s good
space for understanding.
Blow my mind, please.
my heart is made of paper
and darkness is windy with signs of rain.
I wasn’t Phenomenal to people, before acclimatized eyes
convinced me I wasn’t meant
for the light of your looks.
Will you take my nouns away?
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