Room 641A
It's just poetry
Yellow door, Tile floor, No locks, Single-key And the hallway outside is lying, Dead in the quarters. “So,” you almost hear but Of course, cannot (why would you want to?) “Do you know why we’re here?” The door inflates and deflates like it’s excited to find out And behind the door they are only men, and They flip switches and scroll down terminals That look like tea coming to a boil. The whole time I was a frog burning, I was in Indiana, already too late and too poor. In a moment, you will become the wall And be afflicted to know so much, to have Every word coursing through you. Your Pulse will be like a yellow door. Your face will be Monitor-lit, twisted up. You will change Shape and color a hundred times to keep with the Words that cascade across your scalp and down your Skin and you will be Bold and Italics and Slam your face into your Keyboard time and Time again. Your vision will grow splotchy And Sick and Colorful And groaning And groaning. When you will lie outside, Dead in the quarters, You will drip away into the floor, And become simulacrum. Your drops, your pieces will find their way To the pipes and the cables And be fed to the room to find out It was what we are here for.
Thanks for reading. Inspired by something I read the other day. Probably wasn’t important. Much more poetry on my page.


surveilling you is what I'm here for pookie 💖