Frog on the wall, bawl and talk

Hell is the mirror. All time
these things could not see
their dysfunction, same as me.
You, get in this poem.
It happens to be a chair too.
While you’re arguing otherwise
life goes back to hell.
Civil is you know dilution pure
as diluting hurt may get.
Civility is for the damned too.
Our brains in the deep are insects,
no, killer, the first brain was a ball
that could not age with wrinkles,
for fearing. But no thought transplants.
Only slivers if it is tissue to give.
Sense does not need comfort,
sense is sense, comfort comfort.
Portable almost. The dead things
are as happy as they can be.
Logic here dig? No, only fuel you
gregarious abomination of truth
that must give these things
their scowls scowling. Once
something is half-known it can be hated.
Killer, kill, then lap your sugar.

~ by Jeremy on May 28, 2011.

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