i'm satchelswinging in a stranger road
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
hostility.

i, perhaps only me.