i angle sufficiently toward the mirror;
the eyes inside scanning the channels for available plasticity.
it’s sound on sound: the amorphous, prismatic urge to wall-climb shrieks like no mouth could.

tricky truth, the mind is a drag queen that uses glue to apply its make-up;
performing to infinite performance,
my dance is your applause.

prophetic mosaic
worlds apart;
fractal platforms, our worship magnetically nomadic, we flux,
spastically waving.
what do we scream for?
“GOD!”
when do we scream?
“NOW!”