Machines

in the shitter
with the door open
#2, tiny apartment
I hope my neighbor
can hear me
passing gas

,and the old bastard
upstairs
thinks I smell of
marijuana, oh
he had the gossippers
out gossipping
we can’t have that
kind of perversity
around the children
call the p.d.
get the drug sniffing dogs
out here

the vampire downstairs
is off his balls
in his mind laughter
cackle madness ejaculating
societal carcasses
plaster the walls
of his snake pit
tomb
scribbling insanity
with resin scraped fingernails

I don’t like the look
of him
I don’t subscribe
to his nonsense
I don’t imagine
he’ll amount to much
jobless bum
there are no more revolutions to fight
The Man isn’t real
there never were evil conspirators
faceless, looming above
pulling invisible corporate strings
making you question your survival
your surroundings

shit, wipe ass, flush
everyday
aspire to claim regularity
clean cupboard
counter
scrub floor
sink, toilet
make bed
the Gestapo might be stopping by
it’s best to appear as though we
have everything in order;
beyond suspicion

yet
I’m the sociopath ?

wake up medusa hair
brush gets stuck in
unkempt curl
groan
wash face
blink eye blear back at self
urinate
strip off underwear
to shower
sit down in bathtub
feel
water streaming hot
down head, hair, spine
think to myself “I
can try at happiness
today”

I can write about
the spring fresh flower buds
beaming
with anticipation for
the dizzying sex dance
of honey bees caressing
wet virgin petals
alive with erotic whim
and, pollinated excitement

how they swoon in dance form
to move the other, I
am not an animal
and yet
I have willingly chained myself
to barking mad lunacy
howling back
at
transparent
ugly
machines.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

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