Armoire casts a shadow tho
there is no light in the room;
in a ward with no doorknobs
like a system of ducts
in the body without organs
or synths; they love me;
they love everyone; they love
the poop that runs
like blood beneath the skin
with which their nieces
cursed them, & the dermis
is also made of poop
as is the entire
mortal foil-
wrapped burrito of the mind
in the microwave of
the known universe.
Where everyone knows
you’re nameless
like a disease waiting
under Antarctican ice
hoping one day to partially
thaw: still lukewarm
in the middle but
toxic at the edges
due to decades of neglect.
A late bloom
of noxious algae. Take
what you can get
to go.
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