Our hero lifts his head.
He does not bathe because he woke up late again.
He dreamed the dreams he always dreams
And night-time and bright cloth muffled his screams.
Industrially lubricates his hair
And he is told it doesn’t suit him
And he says he doesn’t care.
Our hero is a liar too, it seems.
He eats a meal he does not taste.
He will be empty when the sun turns pale, and the earth to paste.
Now our hero looks so chaste
And he knows he is pretentious-
Now he lays his brain to waste
And sweeps distortion through the songs of birds
To leave them bleeding in the dust.

He feels frail, and his heart is beating faster than it should.
He feels that this cannot be good.
His tongue now tastes of blood between his teeth of wood.
The feeling does not suit him.

Later, digits drowned in antiseptic
He will feel like a heretic
As he voices his opinions of a person as pathetic.
Thinking, “I should call him ****,”
But cannot find a window for a moment to succumb
To the fabricated beauty of a consequential phrase.
Anyway, he knows it would not suit him.
As he walks, he tries an air of menace
But it does not suit him.

Later, our hero receives some news
Surprised, he finds his brain is on a high
And that the feeling doesn’t suit him.