milk-crate furniture that failed to make me cool or edgy
(but nonetheless has been very practical so far) -
all this encircles my reflection,
in that serene suspended moment, when
laughter sounds in another's rooms
(whose closed doors have erections at crotch-level).
In their hemispheres of shit, they seek love,
or pass the time pretending to.
I live out a lie: repositioning my posture in pathetic mimicry,
while I attend to the grace of falling.
In the uneasiness of alone, I ride the large storm,
electrifying myself with a science of scienceless aesthetic!
This, I have elevated to the status of a god-concept, sacrosanct.
But neither it nor l can be fulfilled,
or have not yet figured out how, or why.
A number of books I have not yet read
point at me and laugh from up high,
painting the portrait of my failures coming closer.
I take it all in my stride,
and make a decision to decide to defeat them.
Have them inside, a deicide, as I eat them.
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