Tock / Sick

Time ticks like

check-boxes of foolish

psychiatrical – almost

theatrical –

bent:

bent out of shape and form,

as you used to

so rightly proclaim,

in Dalí-

[unlike-

{d]

rippings}, and greased

lightning conduc-

[ting!] these orchestrated

moments of

thought that splinter my

calm and pieces of

mind: psychotic and pure in

their sickness.

 

But then I discover

the sickness ain’t

mine,

but yoors in strangeness and

curious boors!

 

And all this time they blamed me

for the pure and neat psycho-

SIS, it was

you who destroyed my EGO to

such an

ex-

tent that everything I ever did was de-

signed like authorial

voice and tendency

extre-

ME to blame everyone else for the

diary of

daily evil that – in

FAQ

t – is really nothing to do with me

after all, ex-

cepting the

fact that I ac-

cepted your vers-

i-

ON of the e-

vents that have described the angry

vile-

SENSE of our lives to date.

 

No DATE either:

no dinner in candlelit

beauty: no bathroom of flowered

rose garden: no perfumed

skin against skin to ca-

res-

s like reservations for honeymooned

duty: a call of wonderful

duty: no

duty at all.

 

Nothing of that re-

mains the re-

minder that re-

calls the re-

ducing of re-

writing history that de-

duction does splendidly – if

foully – bring into [re-

li{e}-

(ef] off)

finally,

will you?

4 thoughts on “Tock / Sick

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