the earthquake
my words crumble all earthquake-like into an unknown darkness. i submerge myself in eyeballs that spew warm self-criticism. i escape the unfamiliarity of these redundant verses.
the eyeballs pry into past thoughts into bygone poems: "why the hell did you romanticize this fragile ego?" they squelch to me in unison.
i harvest the humour of the eyes and they watch me suspiciously.
they zap my wanton squishy thieving grey-matter brain (possibly with skull-piercing lasers or other equally alarming weapons similar in purpose, and often the cause of gaping holes in my imagination.) such weaponized pests search fiendishly for whatever self-serving scraps remain of my lonely, silver tongue.
this is why strings of rotten words of estranged letters squelch naked out of my fingers in hoards: but these verses are without love. these words disregard how they used to lie still silently fulfilling their purpose on my piece of paper.
and nowadays the only thing that i can honestly muster out of this vile brain that now resides under the constant vigilance of my pet eyeballs and in the seemingly perpetual absence of actual talent ---- is this satisfyingly weird predictably vertical sort-of-ugly arrangement of words.