Language Is a Virus (from Outer space)

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trying to make sense of my present

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.