doctrinal vultures swapping recipes for turmoil
while skivvies' make do with needles for toys.
Try to put broken bricks in your pillow,
and you might begin to realize.
"let's get back to the exercises" she said.
"It's actually possible to harden your gaze"
"...by daily practice"
The fake Tudor-ish terrace is as far as can be.
Cold broken doors offered instead.
No wonder that, as a young man, he will seek
the sodium glare. Cold comfort,
Southern too.
Sticky habits lead to stick men.
Voluble. Violent. Her violet eyes, unmascaraed.
The planners left a silly corner,
a reminder of the fields we were meant to roam.
Doing the bare minimun... for fuck's sake!
Daffodils and discarded works.
Wet cardboard is disgusting, don't you think?
Atonement, attrition. Life's turnover rate.
It's expectancy varying like the daily drive,
save for the occasional crash.
"Focus on a point on the wall," she continued
(until I lose myself, I thought)
"turn your eyeballs into shot glasses"
(by this moment my mind was back at the office,
and the walls seemed so contemptible).
Why do we agonize and grieve
over these unvindicable affronts.
One hand of awful rewards after another.
On a cracked plate.
Meanness. Measles. Mired. Miser.
Shrinking in front of the social workers.
Budget cuts. Some wrists may go after that.
