The plastic mattress sighs,
these pinstripes not nearly as loud as the others'
with midriffs out, a contour of abdomen or "fitting in."
The thin walls offer me bass, but I am reluctant;
more honored by the piss-beer I've opened
bought with poor earnings of the delightful,
the sugar-coated, a servant for the rich.
My days are tired, so I lounge reclusively,
bored with words and pixels
or empty readings; mostly of myself.
The exquisite self that I refuse to believe
claws in and out of warmth, my dreams.
If night stays black, where are my thoughts?
Neither here, nor there.
I have counted coins to throw in
a well or a pot; both a gamble.
The addict seises to quit.
Culture overwhelms me.
I place myself at the nexus of youth and absurdity
uninterested in either or maybe just ignorant.