I'm barely at home
There's my wooden furniture
These my plates of chrome
A fridge full of nourishment
My marble dome
But I'm barely at home

I've barely a hearth
This a room of my choosing
That there my land on earth
My book shelf for musing
Amenities for mirth
But barely a hearth

you kissed me until all of the pain evaporated
until the echoes of my past fell to a hush
quietly, suddenly the agony dissipated
like there was no room for it here
you repossessed the places my past called home
you called them yours and I called you mine

Have you ever
felt cooped up?
in a narrow space
that you call
your most comfortable bedroom

It could be
your most comfortable place
or the place
where you feel most tormented

A place to hide
from what you fear
but also the place
that imprisons you

the narrow box,
sometimes
it can be an echo of laughter
when other people are with you
but it can also
be a silent scream when you're alone

a bed
that only accompanies you
when you sleep
a pillow
that catches your tears

nobody hears you
because they all died

so who do you complain to
in your room
when you are sued
for mute?

Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,

a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…

I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…

cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee

history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****.

We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.

{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}

Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks

off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,

ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.

There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed

with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…

wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?

What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.

We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:

The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.

From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74kAhUHjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>

and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.

From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.

i saw the elephant
in the room
it was me

My room
Is dark
A web
Of night
But in the corners of my room
Glow handfuls of sunlight
Shining gently
Like yellow fire

Why can't you see
That I love you
Very much
But you need
To get away
From me

There are six ways to die on my table top

There are four ways to get lost in my cupboard

There are seven men drowning in my bottom drawer

There’s a coma above the ceiling fan

and an incinerator under my covers


Under the bed is a mouse trap

In the sink is a death trap

In the gap between the walls

is the most appalling noise

and my radio produces

only the frantic breaths of fitness breeders


The tortured hide under my pillow

(though they belong in my ears)

The glass in the window is made

of the slowest distorting tears

(I never produced them)


The carpet covers my blood

My clothes are covered in sod

The wallpaper hides my dreams

and my dreams have spilled at the seams

I collect masks that are the person I hid

Where do I sit ?

The door is a lid

The room is too warm

Enclosed

An expanding balloon