bakes the day                                        
corpse human   naked to nature
brewing humid importance
sleaving off psychological impotence
busy  
with library returns

the rotting process                  
proof of life  dampens the air
with pine-like fragrance
transfusional breath confirms
      i'm one with the earth

back to the masterplan   to the **** grown crop                  
                  chop-chop    food tinned for the great red heist
the pawn heads   duds stringing out the gross termination
growing the bomb pocked sod with ashes                    
                            fertile with calcium phosphates

growing history fascist-faced                          
  no space for art  love and earning yourself
mal-educate       no learning to learn
back to the masterplan    no time to explain
just be a sport   and don't dare complain

i am a light sleeper                                              
    who wakes before my alarm
but  i have my own personal Witching Hour
a gape                                                    
    when­ I am utterly unguarded      
        and vulnerable  to serpent enemies

it's then that they broach and whisper me suggestion
it's then that i whimper like an abused and receptive whelp
then that i devolve into a manipulatable child of therapy
it's then that weights are stacked upon my chest      
    and my breaths become short  pinned  and pained

even with my wife and child to my side                            
they patiently poison me  with measured pipette drops
run them down a string like spittle
bitter mushroom down the back of my throat                  
and dreams warp toxic like cellophane near a fire
and what visions !
warrens of vivid insecurities as loved ones                        
strip their gloves  and get to work ripping out the pegs
with twisted mocks  tocking noggins              
         and flails of humiliation oiling apart
               the mechanism of my meaning

they look at their watches   time is up
they leave with their instruments      
make idle chit-chat on their way out
lock the front door with the spare key
and place the key back under the mat

i cove my eyes                                   
breathe and billow my way
borne and berthed in dark green fur
it operates   sway of la lune and sea
i hat breath  pat at it deeper and be
                                             silting