Oz
Hollow is a cruel feeling,
Mixing whispers with nothingness,
Bloodying a plain mind.
Riddles are a kind concept,
Bleeding possibilities,
Filling enigmatic empty brains.
The fourth wall is hard to recognize Breaking to address the reader,
Winking at you right now.
I have no tales to tell.
It's all going to hell.
It went south with a smile here,
Key West, Florida, cigars everywhere,
Which I've never seen rolled.
We stayed at a beach house
And learned to bear the heat.
For what wisdom can heat hold?
Not a lot -- stirring atoms,
Shaking, combining, bumping,
Vibrating violently as if they're cold,
Causing us to not be.
Heat's a gubbin, a gubbin who
Yells about the state of the world,
The bottlecaps on the ground,
The 1930's Great Depression,
The height of the ocean.
Heat, one day, down there,
While we were corpses,
Said: "Copulate violently with a doppelganger."
Which translates, in the language
Of the heat, to "go fuck yourself."
At night every night I'd have this
Peculiar power -- an ability to
Feel nothing and everything all
At once. I would talk to the walls
About the feeling, an unpleasant
And still euphoric one.
I'm not I'm.
Always fresh, never frozen, heart,
Beat hard don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't touch me.
Therapy, being to all intents a
Maggot squiggling out of an
Eyeball, the eyeball being in the
Corpse of the dependent one, is
A helper, but it's tiring me out.
Rapid breathing breeds only
Flat affect, poverty of speech,
Anhedonia, agnosia, disorganization,
0-60 affect, and chronic emptiness,
To quote my psychiatrist.
(Who, in all honesty, is a
Real wet towel, that my brother uses
To whip my face.)
If such feelings shall come,
Does that show how I am dumb?
Shall I be hollow eternally?
I spoke. And rapidly started the denounment.
Is there an Oz for me?