with a sort of exorcised defiance,
i think they think i think they think
i hate how they hate me so
i pound up a privetesque driveway,
and through the stony miles i hear
the kitchen yelling, kitchen shouting
like lastcentury's metal.
i can't scream for all the glass hanging
that tenor note hovering in the air that
shrieks like the phantom's chandelier
with her appearance.
i might just destroy the future for its
beauty so she would be locked in the past
dimension too small for the woman too big
to my smashed.
i creep through the red fog and out again
of a pseudohell overrated as sanctity to
kindred of the homeless hungry hasneverbeen
i, perhaps only me.