the inner chamber of my
mind smells like a public toilet
at a county fair
where greasy meats are served on sticks
and the sun is a feckless bastard
with too much time on its hands.
i have been apt to unexpress myself
because the alternative is horrifying.
frankly, i’ve lost touch and i am sprawling
out of orbit, somewhere beyond distinction,
but the inner chamber of my skull remains
hallow and intact and clean and dark and
cool and edgeless, as if scraped out by a spoon.
but the smell remains. understand? the smell.
Written at 1:13 at night, at Home.