if I can't **** where I eat then I wouldn't be conditioned correctly
all of my archetypes are made of wicker
to burn easily and dissolve brain cells more quickly

closer, more palatable, one-sided hand-me-down closure
comes to me indirectly
and wanders back out to sea

my own anxious battle ship
stiffened with paranoia
jolted by nicotine-amphetamine shock and
with everyone accounted for and on board
drifts aimlessly out at night

but there is no battle to be fought
there is no war to win
there are no guns
or knives
or hand grenades

just me