in the middle of the sentence
the punctuation marks dance
i'll steal your complicated language
to write of modern man
and his contemporary baggage
you gain permission to exist
when you're robbed of information
in the perennial dialectic
you draw attention to yourself
but i don't think you really want it
you scribble letters on your forehead
and pull the wool over the eyes
and now the cracks in the ego
begin to complicate the scene
instead of generating meaning
the pale fire frees
i'll use you as a mirror
to define myself
i'll keep you in a box
despite myself
and think of how the memory
refutes itself
and all these flailing bodies
abuse themselves
to death

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