I crawl out of my dreampit
scratchy eyes barely open
birdcage mouth
pouring myself like a spilled drink
onto smooth cold tiles
I am all a slither
oozing towards the stove
coffee pot bubbles away
it's asking my mind
whats cooking bud?
So today i file my report
these fingers twitch like antennea
and march onto action again
typing is pulling levers
with little bones on
the ends of arms
hanging on for dear life
digits switching
swinging from tree to tree
26 choices
supposing into superposition
things are changing thats for sure
another verse clicks into place
like Rubiks considered
patterns allign
under drum
pattern recognition
rhythm color
conundrum
a procession of letters
wish to form a queue
in a static laden casual cloud
flocking new order causality
presents bolted syntax
am i making sense?
how many fingers
am i holding up winston?
the middle one
comes immediately to mind
a final futile gesture?
perhaps.
the coffee is boiling over.
i have to stop now.
i wish i could.
