dead lately
rain, rain, rain, rain, reign ran by time
rains mad for 40 hours on my mind
drowning the melody of my “self”:
flooding me forth of midnight with a woken dream-body
foggy hands, feet, tongues:
lang. swallowed by fatigue to become geek-souled
listless blissless,
abandoned on your mental turnpike walking backwards
starring up at the graycloudgodface
you will know.
masheenery. machinery will start
to talk to you you will feel like them this
ever-on object
obligatorily vibrating and humming vocab like, no no
no not like air conditioning: as the air conditioner.
you no better and s/he is no worse
in this sweated-out hour.
A time never minded by bright prideful daylight
but but is still spinning on the Möbius strip of time
i.e. humanity.
We whisper sweet nothings,
the vending machine and I,
both locked lonely in this corner of Dante’s circle:
an impossible location sustains the pangs of friendship of
being dragged on by eyelids, twisted limbs reaching angry, like roots through cement.
a contemporary philosopher dreams not of the
appreciation I see stalking this sunless dome
over our bodies:
she sleeps in, worried eternal inside
a tower of naps.
I opened for the 44 hours and see
self reflected in darkness—obsidian mirror, wholly.
“The horror. The horror”.
Lyssa whips eyes open to it.
You drift back, I watched your steps, one over another.
Drift back someday to your bed and let all
ambition mix with gray
static over ears, seeping to
your box frame.
Feed real with yourself, like me,
and strangeness to the monster under your bed
between the clench of your teeth.
Let your head sink
to the thick legs of a long girl,
the dancer unreal in your head, but cooing slowly in mine.
She will understand long as you let her.
When you're stable and able to imagine again
she will show up to leave it up to you,
ushering reality safely back on to your spine.
rain, rain, rain, rain, reign ran by time
rains mad for 40 hours on my mind
drowning the melody of my “self”:
flooding me forth of midnight with a woken dream-body
foggy hands, feet, tongues:
lang. swallowed by fatigue to become geek-souled
listless blissless,
abandoned on your mental turnpike walking backwards
starring up at the graycloudgodface
you will know.
masheenery. machinery will start
to talk to you you will feel like them this
ever-on object
obligatorily vibrating and humming vocab like, no no
no not like air conditioning: as the air conditioner.
you no better and s/he is no worse
in this sweated-out hour.
A time never minded by bright prideful daylight
but but is still spinning on the Möbius strip of time
i.e. humanity.
We whisper sweet nothings,
the vending machine and I,
both locked lonely in this corner of Dante’s circle:
an impossible location sustains the pangs of friendship of
being dragged on by eyelids, twisted limbs reaching angry, like roots through cement.
a contemporary philosopher dreams not of the
appreciation I see stalking this sunless dome
over our bodies:
she sleeps in, worried eternal inside
a tower of naps.
I opened for the 44 hours and see
self reflected in darkness—obsidian mirror, wholly.
“The horror. The horror”.
Lyssa whips eyes open to it.
You drift back, I watched your steps, one over another.
Drift back someday to your bed and let all
ambition mix with gray
static over ears, seeping to
your box frame.
Feed real with yourself, like me,
and strangeness to the monster under your bed
between the clench of your teeth.
Let your head sink
to the thick legs of a long girl,
the dancer unreal in your head, but cooing slowly in mine.
She will understand long as you let her.
When you're stable and able to imagine again
she will show up to leave it up to you,
ushering reality safely back on to your spine.
