Wednesday, August 26, 2015

tears cave in.

daydreams of mud: cheap commerce, i see
no use in protest....
everyone is into cultivating habits. it's okay if i am, too.

it's called having a plague, and flopping about in it, like i'm
caught in a fucking gadfly infestation.

some guy is watching. his legs are apart. i'm looking up at him.
he is twenty-five years older and rich.
he makes me wear pigtails.
the plague i'm flopping about in is a sandbox

which is proportionate to my size. we enable the need for
attention, acknowledging it. there's

always something being thought of. that mind

is dirty, always
on the hunt for fulfilling needs, desires, or weighing the use
of one over the other. perception

is lazy- on the sidelines, watching change happen. prey-drive
is important, though. critically important.

i defend my wounds. my tourniquets
are handmade. it's pretty cool. i do not want my wounds

to be tended to any other way-

i do not want to regress- furthermore,
be left hanging in the middle

of a regression. now what? adolescence
again? tear gas controls the crowd- views become

ostensible cultural
impositions. we mold into the cookie-cutter shapes
real easily. did i notice, sweet grandchild? no. i didn't even notice.