Critical Condition

You can remember how to smoke sure enough,
Though you seem to find it tough to deal with the fact that you have hands;
Tripped out by the words taking form as they leave your mouth –
Hence the shit you spew out;
Every day phrases have been explored,
Only nonsense tones now,
Anything new creates unknown form;
You just want to know what else will come.
You don’t realise,
All while you’ve been experimenting,
Improvising langue,
You’ve created a superstructure
Of useless others;
All coming together for the one purpose:
To keep you transfixed on their existing
Their meaning,
Deadening your eye; your stare fixed
On that which is not there –
Desiring the, as yet, inexisting,
Focused on being the first to see it.
Too busy to even notice
The chair in which you permanently sit
Has long since broken.
What first splintered,
Soon became wood bits;
Still the cushion padded your experiments;
I wondered how you didn’t register your lowering perspective,
The snapping of sticks –
Let me know when you’re done with such gibberish.

All Out Paranoid

There is a wealth of beauty,
Don’t close yourself off from it –
As creator, hermit.
Remoulded from outgoing, going out kind
To all out paranoid,
By experience.
Experience promised to bring knowledge.
Not ignorance, fear,
Forgetfulness –
Not like Alzheimer’s,
Just an unwillingness,
Inability, to look back
Afore the rose-tint rubbed off
To reveal black
Crevasses filled with
Heating their fists over a canned fire;
An entire civilisation begrudgingly formed
By those who found themselves alone,
Having managed to close everything out,
Everyone, by one,
Til none was known –
A place to which you’re welcome,
Having cursed all help,
Having done such a good job of demarcating,
Alienating yourself;
Scoffing up and at at hand that nurtured us,
Fed us all we need –
I’ll see you there,
Where the streets are bare, concrete,
But do not attempt to talk to me.