I sit here swinging my
scaly, pale hooks at the alphabet.
I look around & everything
in this little place
is human made,
from the laptop to the coffee machine.
I feel like I’ve awoken
to some cold, future alien world.
So I gaze through the window
at the tall trees standing out there,
thick bark bars of the prison cell
of amoral nature.
We’re fucked either way.
Have yr pick: the safe & the fake
or the unfostering & the brutal.
A lot of days I feel I am within
these thin walls,
my flesh ripped by the sharp points
of incoming nails,
but somehow it’s better than rubbing shoulders
w/the crowds of perfumed corpses walking the streets.
Those mobile corpses are much more brutal
than the trees.
Maybe I will go to the ocean.
I wonder if the waves possessed
consciousness they’d puke at their
endless monotonous hellish job.
I never make it to the ocean.
I stick w/the interior
The modern iron maiden
we call home.