Dementium

Surrounded Life is a trial. It's accepting there's a knock at the door and no one's there. It's strength in the silence of a room when fabricated chatter invades any manner of listening. It's in the stillness of being incredibly small while the world looms beyond the blank-white four-walled cage, leering in with a locked-iron look. It's reasoning without the privilege of cause and effect. It's entering a cafe -- an intention to shoot the breeze with old friends, then a pause -- intuition inexplicably indicates (electroshock, heart in a nose-dive, numbing realization): "no one knows you here." It's

Nervous Tension Like A Bomb Nervous tension like a bomb all Hiroshima on me explode imploding meta-data abounds surround sound and ill-equipped equipment echoed speckled mess of rubble and troubling in trouble. Icky sticky mess of festering festivals of frightening finds ill and erroneous terrible triumph of terror error rarer than air and lighter with care. There, it's there, incredible advantageous instantaneous cranium of sound light-bomb pound explode exclusively around exclusion conclusively reclusion delicious delusion intrusion. Mini-bayonet babbling drivel driving behind little behinds sizing seismic

Hypothetic Hips Frustration in the stratosphere. Stainless steel shoes I couldn't wear because the metallic flashed too damn cold and the high heels teetered like stilts an impossibility tottering borderline possibility. These hypothetic hips: pathetic slip of failure under vexing convictions.

If We Weren't So Poor I bet if we weren't so fucking poor, we'd actually be good together, you and me. I bet if we didn't try so immaculately inane, our asinine aspirations would run together diarrhea burp of excrement to the extreme – runny down mucus veins of shouting through bile- filled gulping gloating about each payment capitalism robbed us blind, tied-up, and stupefied numb – about selling crappy, used possessions for even crappier, used and abused possessive sessions of sentiment – about whether unemployment and minimum wage are enough to "make it" on.   You tell me, darling, if

An Illumination Equation Bitter back-breaking stampeding of asphalt into a quiet where all our faults congeal as though a massive undertaking wrenched drapery from its tassels, escapery from its castles, and savory from its apples. To save the last bite unintentional pent up pentacle-like tangles and angles. Angels of muse and bemused befuddlement falling all over the underside of imagery as if a washed-out stereo of sound sternly screeched under skin-tight hearing. Overdue for a few colloquialisms and quality- control quantitative quantity. Qualified, that's it – qualification elation. The terms defined fined-

Of Expectations I want to live. learn. laugh. cry be exploding stardust on the interior of a wind shielded from the storming refuse of science that can't discover a recovery from the modern antithesis cocoon of over-stimulation scorning recycled redundancy enmeshed in pages of fashion trashed to the wayside. Or I will unravel into gravel gravely paving a way of waves inching tenderly toward I reach my inner keeper who keeps kneading away at the molding outer shell of self- worth and reliance on the exterior media feeding frenzy of input – kaput! Shell of a sellout outlaw lawless in nature and unkind nurturing

Hallowed Hallowed reverence resonance reverberating across vertebrae resounding sound uncanny legs like canned incandescence iridescent floor-spine decline whitewash opalescence evanescent essence sense scented scent, heaven-sent incense sequence of sequins: breather believer receiver.