the walls were spinning crazy
like a disgorging disco ball.
chromatismic hocus pocus.
a bogus kind of dance.
the ceiling became fresh
laceration, bleeding
the chance to fall.
think, think, Think.
there's a piece of
poetry in my alphabet soup.
i burped onomatopoeically
in between slurps.
i feel poetic in a
very unpoetic sense.
of sensory and visuals.
consuming the nonsensical
in my brain. "do you
have any idea what i'm
talking about?" said
the voice.

NOooo!

i replied,
with feelings.

(about face)
i looked at the bed
that was sleeping on the floor
on all fours.
it looked benign, as usual.

and, and, and...

i was surprised that door
slammed itself in nothing's
face.

it's a shame. it's
the only thing that
lasts forever.

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