Poem: Condition

can’t ever tell how fast time is

going, whether it’s speeding up or stopping

for good, because I can’t see it

from the outside of itself, knowing that

it’s shaped like an octopus, with each moment a pair

of eyes, seeing everything that teaches

nothing of use, but if I could see

the messages, filter them out from the sand

as gold, I would be thought mad.


My lessons spit on, shit on, burned

in the cauldron of a cloud, we’re all fogged over

forever from before we were even

born, if anyone could see the hand

before their face it would claw

at their eyes, probably, though it could be

just as they say, reality a conflict

network, balanced on a wound

screaming pinpoint, but I can’t see

shit tearing at the walls, assuming this is

just another floor, the top is a state

of mind, like life and death.

Poem: Condition

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