Groaning is but poetry
Intelligible garbles sewn together
Into universes - She stands

Making faces in the mirror
Like Bukowski in a fogged up tray.
A lighthouse, posed exterior,
Terrifying beacon of an hourless day.

Eras lie behind her eyes
Reflecting that pupil-smile stare.
Teeth glued and mouth stitched shut
Oysters woven through her hair.

She knows the lot, or just enough
Enough to make it clear
That sanity has lots its sense,
It has no business here.