writing in sedimentary forms
gathered from the bottom
of a water glass washed in oil
not because you are thirsty but because the rim of the glass is round.
and it seems as comfortable as yr mothers chest once did, before breastfeeding
was considered less nutritious than a powdered abstraction for cows.
i cannot even find a pencil that will last through these pressure cooker mindfucks.
i cannot even find the part of my stomach that my pride landed in
perhaps the last time i vomited it came up with all that booze. so am i shameful without that spot of stars? no. and i will not search to regain that liquidity of acid.
it isnt a thing to find lying in the gutters of the city.
and it isnt something to find in the cul de sac where the friendly neighborhood cop lives next door.
and it aint in the water bowl that only dogs should drink from.
so here i am in techno virtuality looking outta a "real" window at the disembodied masses thinking
"my mind is a microwave"
"my life is a pigeonhole"
"a pigeon in a microwave isnt even the worst thing possible"