Last night I was chased by Leatherface again.
Am I liable for copyright infringement in my dreams?
That would be a nightmare
which I’ve gotten used to
coming back around like the blades of a
******* tool misappropriated as a weapon
reminding me I’m safest when turned off
yet being idle means trouble
because that leads to getting revved up
which is fatal
after the faceless killer takes pieces from me
reveling in my pain
while hiding behind a newly found face
from the next victim of the spree
connected to the chain I saw
which was just one link soon to be forgotten
in favor of the next night’s nightmare.

I don’t know who I am
I don’t even feel like a person
maybe that’s why I enjoy *** so much
to receive attraction
a validation of existence
proving a planet exists through its moon’s orbit.

Driving down the road at night
an oblivious skunk walks out in front of me
forcing a brake stomp
chaos car slides like the items inside
stopping inches before the skunk
who nonchalantly scurries off
frustration fills my car
whose contents have been turned upside down
but I can’t begrudge the skunk
because creatures follow a different set of rules
especially skunks
so the road continues to be traveled
but I wish I had never had to deal with that skunk
because the stench of its spray sticks to my Focus.

Get out of the bed
I can’t shock you to life
you’re not Frankenstein’s monster
because you’re no longer Frankenstein’s
after townspeople pitched a fork in the road
and spun you like a windmill
you chose the path of hellfire
burning from the death of innocence.

I'm part of a community
working for an oligarch
who treats us with impunity
and without his heart.
Due to the utmost conceit
his throne is one seat
so if we want to come eat
we'll have to compete.

We fight for master's love through production
at the cost of energy reduction
begging for an elitist induction
to the more favorable side of how we function.

The leader is a speeder bleeder
draining liters to move meters
we teeter further down steeper
in this ditch digging deeper.
The guy running the floor
is running for more
so if I run to the store
I run to his door.
He's more decisive
and callous
granting license
to his palace.

Ball and chain
walls of pain
stall my lane
hall of flames
calls for rain
all the same.

Depletion is the mission
in this war of attrition
they want to take all of me and nothing more
compliantly beaten like a loving *****
manning the counter to this ****** store.
Pieces are falling off
my fingers are broken
so I can feed on my slop
with American tokens.

I need to blast home
from this blast zone
my last known
whereabouts
no one cares about
stuck in this warehouse.
My job is to die slowly
in this position lowly
where nobody knows me
isolated and lonely.

One foot in the grave
one foot out the door
no matter how much I save
I can never even the score
which is the reason I'm poor
I reach for the shore
but I'm rebuffed
by makers of stuff
like hatred and such
a hundred acres too much
separates us.
I can't make the miles
with a used up body
so I take up the style
of scratching and clawing.

Trying to avoid the routes everyone else travels
I take remote side roads and superfluous detours
seeing sights unseen and grass that’s green
until gravelly roads are met by tired tires
breaking down in the middle of nowhere
with nobody around to help
I can see the freeway from here
where cars flock together
while getting to where they want to go.

I'm a facsimile
a fake
emptiness filling me
I think
I don't know
it sinks
in a heart of stone
protected by gnarled bone
creating a hollow home
for veins carrying a mannequin's blood
so I can be Zap Brannigan smug
with no plan to win love
just fill a hole in my heart
when I draw and discard
avoiding any form of vulnerability
so I can act cruel willingly
and shirk my responsibility
to my fellow man
I'm well off ******
overestimating my self worth
to save me from getting hurt
by people that act like myself
this can't be good for my health.