aimless and limp,

it twitches under the veil.

it masturbates to glorified misery.

What? Nil.

like cotton sheep on a foggy moor.
Adhering to everything but the distant coughs of capitulation.

a cracked spectacle:

they watch and they chew,
dull as hands.

as it sits and it thinks
and it reluctantly accepts
the gravity and the concrete
and the measurements and the bones
and the blood and the skin and
the cupcakes and ****** of everyday furniture.


tell me it's okay and I'll step right in.