Imagine
Perfectly normal house
Perfectly normal girl
Perfectly healthy body
Chaotic mind.
Her thoughts
As loud as waves
Clashing on rocks.
Yet a voice
So quiet
Like a breeze
Through palm trees.

You walk into the mirror box and it’s like walking
into the imagery of one of your own poems.
You’re caught in the mirror maze, searching for yourself
in the mirrors at angles but all you can see is yourself,
back to back in the mirror tunnel, yourself again and again
until you can’t recognise her anymore.
Is it me? you ask and it is, but you’re still not convinced.
Is it just me in the mirror box, legs up to my chest, eyes closed
because I am horrible, you quote, but you’re standing up.
You’re standing up in too many of your own poems, in this permanence
of your fleeting reflection which proves you are real but has become
so metaphorical that being in the mirror box makes you question
the possibility of yourself as this person who is being reflected.
But this isn’t a poem, I tell myself. I don’t live in the second person.
She tries to cast aside the metaphors for a moment to try on the clothes
but you’re stuck in the mirror box, in the nightmares of my own poetry.

What does the future have in store
that I need the strength
all these trails are supposed to be giving me?

What does my character lack
that it needs these lessons?

Or am I purely being punished?

Tell me the truth
set me free.

I wish I had found in you,
all you had found in me.

when it rains,
i sometimes stick my
arm outside
the confines of my room,
close my eyes,
and try counting
the number of kisses
the rain makes
with my outstreched arm;
i never keep count,
i just keep thinking
of the attiring
trees and other plants
with my own,
inverted set of lungs.

replying freud...

   what do women want?

to act as if they're "confused"...

and to be honest?

   i can't be bothered with
this question,

    i haven't even asked it proper,
and i'm already lethargic
about it...

   why do women reveal so little
of their nature?

   i guess playing with barbie dolls
really served us to become
puppets in their grip...

what a boring question!
   who asks that sort of quetion
and can't see the obvious truth?

noble page! pour me another drink!
sure thing, don quixote...
     and why wouldn't man
find much more in "madness"
as he might find in a "woman"?

  to be honest, i did prefer buying
en vogue's singel when
the prodigy's album
    music for the jilted generation
came out...
                  
     ha... so long ago that's it's
untrue...
          even though i take to make
imprints on the sand with my feet,
i am nothing short of the sea,
revising the presence with
  being the schrödinger metaphor
existent outside the realm
of box, radioactivity, and cats...

i am the sea...

     sum aequor, etiam sum flumen,
              per se qua: cogito...

i am the sea, and i am the river,
   as being: being in itself - thought.

  i am the sea in being, but i am also
a river, as being: thought...

women are not "confused" -
   men know this,
and to break away from the supposed
"confusion" crafted abstraction,
  to allow woman her natural state
of existence,
  but at the same time to break away
from her...
   crafting chess, crafting puppeteering...

i lost the ambition of wanting
to know certain things,
to me i find them exhausting...
i don't like lies to begin with...
   and it's so exhausting listening to
a woman who writes her life into
the grave of fiction, without actually
producing a novel...

(ego) sum aequor, (ego) sum flumen,
(ego) sum: labyrinthus.

for if woman has the heart
to weave her fiction over reality,
      man has his mind to do likewise...
woman in stasis:
              within the ratio of
                                    man in flux;
"irony": influx.

           there is no ontological worth
investigating woman,
for akin to kierkegaard's god,
the never-changing god...

                 woman is a tiresome
ontological endeavour, akin to god...
for neither change,
   for both are a home with,
or without a basilica, a home within a home,
or a home without a basis for
permanent residing spheres of interests...
   man impregnates the woman
for continuum...
   as he goes the idea of a god
by ******* his thought, into "nothing":

       icarus cogito ad res "nihil"...

but i wonder... where do moment of
"prohibited" thought wonder into?
            where do moments where thought
does not exact the coordinates
based around a god (0, 0 , 0) wonder toward?

           luckily, toward things of
spontaneous interests...
     like a feral animal suddenly jolted into
its full sensual enthropy,
   such that we too,
become seemingly woken within
the waking hours, bound to an ingeneous path
of revelation and originality...

beyond the **** sapiens, there's the reversal
of the transgender movement...

     **** in flux -
        femina in stasis.
                          
                         with my feet impressed
upon this earth,
   i see no other gate of entry,
            but the many gates of departure.