18.08.25
It is myself I have never met,
face pasted on the underside
of my sleepless night of Rorschachs
unstuck the objects i do not own
whose floor shifts ten thousand utensils
it is beautiful but it is still
not mine insects in a glass case
the porcelain in palsied hands
a total worldview you have friends
comprised a truth which
no one ever utters
in the crux of perceived life
competition eating out
itself life as I share without
name medication in the shape
of the evenings carouser
the ghost phosphors in the shape
of the body stoles overheating
in a swollen sky inside
freeze dried extinguished faith
be an old ghost weeping
on a chair with a shelf of feeling
cry a million times telepathy
hope another succession
it’s after midnight almost,
a day when all injustices are evened out
almost tongs I pull from myself
against the wall the law of our aggression
payment in what form?
