Insecurity, the screw of all evil,
that incessant second guesses,
those incommunicados,
those former members,
if you're walking, if you're real or a stalking wanna-be,
or another little brother
or a factory faking it, producing shore,
looking to conquer a dozen oceans or looking for something like a fan blowing
out everbodies' babies for freudian delight.

Insecurity, the mother of all sitcoms,
the dawn of all knives.
On your knees, please, the birth of
irregularities, the turf of aqgression,
of situations sprouting stupidities
and stupid people, unlike
but like in little ways, everybody else.

I'm writing it, I'm brightening it, o.c.,
of course, it's a positive spin, a winner
an uncomplicated acceptance of
everything that's me, a freedom
like a toast, a boast
with a big grin on a big mouth
slightly south.

It's all so fucking sad, ce'st la scream.
It's all just sad furniture with the
sad lamps in a sad afternoon with only
shakers of light falling
alongside the end tables.

The maiming and the blaming,
the explaining on the rug,
the fingers towards the window,
the hiding, the abiding, the formal
tails wagging politely, like shovels
out of pails, like cat sat in the cream, so beside itself it
couldn't figure out the other play.


 

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