They say you can’t be in two places at once …
but, here I am, in this poem, narrating, coexisting with my half-witted, half-hung-over self, writing in half-baked-prose, wholly-cogitating over the clogged sink, woefully ruminating, thick as I think, imitating a mind, and lips, moving in sync,
Im alright, mate.
Liar. This is your internal voice, manifested, who’re you tryna kid, kid?
You’re barely opening up, from the eyelid.
You’re not some battle hardened warrior.
You’ll let down your guard like a lead balloon.
Dropping armour, and shield, you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.
I could tear you in half with a spoon.
Why we don’t rhyme much anymore,
no one knows,
when did we forfeit rhyme,
for half-price prose?
It’s a giveaway.
Im only human.
Did I just giveaway the plot?
Or, did I lose it …
I can be anything here;
wise, beyond my facility,
inflating my own sense of ability
- I do fear.
Can you confirm my sanity?
Im stuck in a feedback loop,
attending to the fermentation,
of novel ideas,
confirming the bias,
refracting the spheres,
bending the sourdough,
oozing out of my ears,
into little wreathes,
ready for the oven.
The words have risen, they must be removed before they burn.
Yet, they must crisp a little longer, if I wish to learn …
eat up, masticate, and churn …
grow and develop.
Oh, the irony, finally, I see.
Open me up, an autopsy.
With me, alive,
screaming and flailing,
all the little gingerbread men,
come marching out,
spilling truths, from within,
fresh off the pan
… can’t stand the heat of the kitchen.
It’s near time to sling my backpack,
and, up and fly to Japan. Non-fiction.
Running through neon streets
with my stomach stitched,
How did I get here?
Now, let’s see …
let’s see you try and live,
without the host.
No more intrusive thoughts,
just butter and toast. Staples.
They love robots.
These emotions do not compute.
Troubleshoot. Troubleshoot. Trouble, shoot, shoot, shoot.
We need to hit reset - reboot.
One sleep hasn’t cured you.
Who’re you kidding, kid,
you just can’t shake em’, can you?
Stress, anxiety, fear, nervous energies,
self deprecating tendencies,
all crazy, up in yo headspace
- Robin your content,
and, his band of merry fuckin’ men
singing until they’re blue in the face.
© Darius the Mate 10-01-2022
Written for Shay’s Word Garden.
Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog