pissy buckets of shitty poetry

89.S.2

I stand on a stage
made of wood and dried up blood
It seeped through the cracks

I look at it because whatever is in front me
is blinding and it floods my little pupils
and it fractionates their black

into tiny little spots of ink,
holes from an injection, and they take over my irises
and then invent their own projection

I'm on the brink
of something huge, I know, I know for certain,
they call someone from the audience
and I fall behind the curtains

Oh how foolish have I been,
to hope for an applause?

For every play on stage
I have to know I have been wrong
and never right, that is,
to think I could've passed
in front of anonymity
without feeling like a ghost
myself

And they watch me play myself
self of many but not of mine
I sell it all to others for a cent or recognition
since the sense of intuition has gone missing long ago

and still i play and plan to off
a paradoxical machine making contact with the host

gesturing deceit and organizing its own vengeance
through the cracked and fragile lenses of its own shadowy presence
keeping track of archive books and falling in between the pages
of a crazy guy's handbook and logs displayed out for the audience

and they laugh
and i do too
because a fraud is what i am
and what I'll be till my own doom

and I laugh
and them as well
because the roles have been confused
and it is me,

Oh, I've been fused, i believe, to
resume duty of consumption
in the all-seeing perfect system
I forsee cannibalism of the mind

And I am blind
I am still blind
I do not care for my demise
But I am blind, I cannot see

Still, what's one me without me?
Or a me without another
but me-less, why even bother
breaking walls inside of cluster a b c d

He decided
and soon enough he collided or-

or me, or me!
Me, how does it feel?
Going running in the morning
since the bed was set on fire
and you lost your good attire
and synapses started burning through the skull?

The flesh, oh flesh,
other me, how does it feel?
To laugh and suffocate
in sorrow-seeking white euphoria
Is that enough? Before I
let dysphoria scar
quicksilver wounds in metal plates
scoria is going to settle soon

And oh my doom, my doom
Me, oh, you buffoon, the doom is near
You should turn
and run
and maybe level out the fear

Oh, your eyelids, they flatten
and so does your heart
have you forgotten that lesson about how to restart?

Oh me, wake up, wake up I say
You're still up there on stage
It's time for you to sway
and get yourself back in place

Ah, you did good, me,
you've really found yourself there
A good freak, if I must say,
to think I had no faith at all, there!

Get up, get up,
get ready for the end
since you have another show,
show me and us how to defend
a reputation self-destroyed
looking for self actualization

Yes get up, get up,
and walk your stupid feet
Disappear once and forever
like the first blood you let seep
through your cracks, yes,
and your little spots of ink,
three new pupils might just be
what you'll ever need to see