a mattress on the floor, thin, stained, dirt on the floorboards, a nail, rusty
bursting out of the ground like a daisy, petals under motorcycle boots
light a match, light another, light a newspaper, let the flame
lick your fingertips. can you feel it?
.
the never-ending search for sensation has led me here, to this room
this table, these people, so i can’t help but think, My God,
Would I be here if I were a different person? If my brain were pinker?
Would I be here if I didn’t burn down every home I’ve ever known?
.
no amount of cleaning can get the stains off the walls. who will be dead
and who will be a millionaire? mingling all together in rusty stripes
and spots on cheap blue wallpaper, and i can’t shake the feeling that
there’s someone watching, record-keeping a horrible joke.
.
.
.