I'm a set of stripped screws
torn from a stage-play set.
And though admitting it's a noose,
I do not fully get it yet.
Bed's breathing like a sponge,
squeezing water from its chest.
And though I have a hunch,
I do not fully get it yet.
I'm a lifestyle choice...
...not quite the schwa de vivre.
Is that the secret source of noise,
like a mouse i thought I saw?
Play "Find the Disembodied Voice."
I used to always play to win.
If it's not in my crate of toys,
then I don't know where to begin.

I grab the edges of the jagged cliffs of friendship. I dream in vivid tension, and I always fail to mention in the morning when scratch and yawn, repeat, almost deliberately, to distract me.

I'm seated at the demand of Our Father at the right hand of a toddler; he's a never-ending sobber, and I hate seeing my face and seeing his, and that's the way this evening is. How can I help it?

And you talk it to death.
I'm naked like an emperor,
and I'm prodded to breath.

What to utter's my concern.
The circles start to settle in;
they've come to make my butter churn.
I've got options, I suppose.
I could make a clean escape.
I can walk longer than most,
maybe return to ticker tape.
I'm an asshole and I gape.

It's easy to lead little boys to prison, lock 'em in and never miss 'em. If you wanna make a mockery of heart, then that's a proper way to start. But if I manage to do just as much damage just by being me,

who would ever wanna stick their head out mama's sauna to emerge into a world of tangled cables and small towns that aren't stable? I'd love to say I know myself, but I keep trying to hide my purse from me!

And you talk it to death.
I'm naked like an emperor,
and I'm prodded to breath.