People.

I used to deny I was special.

It made me feel so covert.

Like I was

Emptying myself to play a role.

To be honest, I think I might have been a great actor.

Like Brando.

People though,

they are beautiful on their own or

from a distance.

The garden of tapping

Headless chickens though.

They make me feel I am slowly

Becoming more and more unique.

But I feel so lethargic in itm as though

I am a marionette made up of body parts,

all from varying ages in my part.

And by adult head is hung up by a hook,

Like something out of Hellraiser,

And I am directed to and from locations.

But at night I am here at this screen.

And I am fucking exceptional,

Even within a blogoshperic population of millions of ramblers and

Complainers and pitchers and blamers.

I am here.

As you age if your time does not gain valuation over

Currencies of the world in which you are jostled through,

Then take a bow.

Get off the stage.

I have something new to have destroy my chest and spawn

Like a H.R. Giger alien

And it knows your name is correlated to your economic position.

It knows you are a cheap or a high end action figure, or a sculpture.

It knows I am an original sin, an anomaly.

A throw back Monday to Friday.

Some pastiche over the holidays for Measure.

And you aren’t forgetting clever.

People piss me off in large groups.

but become so interesting when left to themselves

just long enough to go a little cracked.

You drown out the main soundtrack,

and make me dance a little less shifty.

But even you can’t handle my twitch.

I lifted myself through a roof once in a dream.

Inside the attic-like sky they occupied were

a dozen friends and lovers and I had yet to meet.

People are like the Dark Crystal I guess;

Skeksis are as necessary as Mystics.

Not that I ever considered myself Gelfling,

More like the Neverending’s” Nothing” on my back,

That rides the mechanical bull of mu pride into

snowbanks of blow and

dirty hobo with sketchy looks

And metal pipes all like;

“You don’t know where I’ve been Lou! You don’t know where I’ve been!”

No people here. Just the stroboscopic pentameter of

A million movie references,

Balled up in a tight circumference of

Freckled flesh set fire to on

A hundred binges,

Hoping to burn out the light

That burns your eyes

Hoping to burn out the lights

Before they fade.

Or at least break a few bulbs before the restless natives take us.