She wakes.
Her eyelids divorced by electronic matchsticks-
screaming in paranoia; panic.
She stretches and yawns and stretches for the
bottle of pills on the dresser.
petrol in her car and her heart won’t break down.
So the sun will burst through the horizon.
All of the answers in the universe
resting, dissolving: almost malleable between her fingers
a capsule as blue as it is magenta:
yin and yang, flaunting its controversy.
The answers are not answers at all.
An illusion of stability,
of train tracks and footpaths and monuments.
of centrifuge.
Her irises are the sunlight
and gravity flows through her veins
and the universe revolves like a record:
the same old song,
The same old Song.
The hooks have lost their teeth
and rust in her arteries
while the chorus marches marathons
through her cortex.
But
she knows every single word;
every grating inhalation
is tattooed on her corneas
and branded on her tongue.
And she dances to the music
like the arm of a metronome.
tick tick tick, faster faster
faster, the ticks become a blur of static
that festers in eardrums;
corpse in a cave.
Until dry bones and shattered dreams
rattle the train tracks.
The pills stave the infection
as she flails in the vortex
of tax forms and toothbrushes,
mortgages and soap.
A diary of paper cuts and cotton wool
lies on the dresser.
Ink envenoms oxygen.
She lives in a photocopy
Déjà vu, déjà vu.
2 dimensions,
charred fibres,
caustic ink
fading.
And the pages turn like helicopter blades
chasing each other, accelerating, screaming
in pain until they break off into the atmosphere
of blue and black and nothingness
and freedom.
forgotten.
But she is no wingsan, no 3rd dimension,
just a cacophony of line and footstep,
cause and effect.
A marching band plays her song and
all of the ants sing along.
oxygen thieves.
But there she stands,
surrounded by mirrors
and she knows, she knows
she knows the ugliness she shares.
She runs,
her legs like helicopter blades.
Back to her lot, her bed, her dresser.
The band bows and the spotlights crash to earth
like meteors,
Darksilentcoldblindness
alone alone alone;
Free;
She can taste it on her tongue:
burning, blistering from routine friction
but the universe within her bucks
every answer at once: affliction
and the fear becomes the crux.
Retreat.
She prints out another blade
and crushes it between her palms
Wastepaper.
sleety, jagged mountain
Déjà vu.
She forgets another face
another name, another number.
Another scar, another heartbreak
Déjà vu.
She drowns another universe
in the depths of her soul
and returns to the matchsticks.
12:02; 12:02; Déjà vu.
They burn chartreuse her retinas until
the answer melts her eyelids.
Hallucinogenic hiatus
Dé
jà
vu
fading.
I smash the mirror into a thousand lucky fragments,
and close my eyes and wait 'till I explode.
but that's only becasue I'm not the brightest girl in the world!