The sense of an undirected gaze,
sincerely removed from the air
by a willing, polished chassis,
stirs the battery soul of a governed look;

budge upon budge, dam upon dam,
wrath compounding over the wrath of starved formulae,
ribbon-sent, shocked to bonus pay.

Terrible the blemish,
terrible the potato-skinned impulse,
the labor, the pen, the dragon-light torch
meant to replace the tri-pronged street lamp,
and to light the robbery in progress near MG Road.

Words are made of thoughts.
I wish they'd intrude. I am lonely,
unemployed with a nine to seven routine
of various activities.

A malignant trend courses through the head.
Broadcasting it outside in the realm of trust
where I am blank but set to go, it would have
the appearance of a finely ambient glass of chocolate milk.

Sometimes I'm asked why the relevance hinges on me.
If I had to say, it's because I keep getting vignettes, like something
out of a beggar's bowl, a wooden saltiness
that becomes increasingly less involved. And, like, everytime
I think about it, it's something similar to trying to walk
on John Carter's Mars; and all of this trivial, like, asinine
things can never match up to the draw, the pull of
whatever has been dropped, whatever has been shorn
unevenly like a badly eaten candy-bar. Or something.
I don't know why it has to be about me.
I don't, pull my weight, and recently I feel cold in the summer;
I have slept under a bedsheet since June.
That's not what this is about, or what I, want to project.

This isn't a prerogative, a jarring hiss of due-dates
incoming inevitably. I just ****. Which is not a surprise,
like organic web shooters is a surprise, or, thinking up
something like a dead polemic of a sewer draining
the sordid leftovers of a consciousness.

Woman, nothing too absurd, ipso facto -
no captcha to code, my bankrupt support,
a jolt of skinny-dipping in LED lit river before breakfast;
let's go overboard, woman, in Mr. Big's world
where the afterimage will be a little wildly stitched cloth
with creases full of memory of hot-chocolate spills and coke
because we were running amok, fighting over pillow-talk
and in retrospect, we are not generally forced
to find the roots while on square one, which said, I've gotta admit
the ramifications of turning off the cell phone
are miraculous, like the genius of drinking scotch
with ice broken in the reception hall,
perfect place to pose for retrica in limited doses
unless sunlight throws me off guard to leap
over your red sandshoes for formal introductions,
an uncanny causal anomaly the size of a golf-course.