truth

Sunk in a cornerless hole
Awareness will leak from my eyes and nose
Language will no longer
Be my encompassing game
Definition will secede to feeling
Bow defiantly to the ebbing tsunamis

I have seen the raw
It is close to me
Idealized
And disappointing

Jangle in your vanity
Waste one hour
Of one day
Of the very minute amount of time
You have
To decorate
To indulge
Procrastination
With its pleated passions

There is a room
In the corner
Of Van Gogh’s madness
Where a chair
Looks the same in my mind
As on his canvas

Displacement: an object moved from its natural environment into contrasting surroundings

Cubism: Spacial Revolution, bursting apart planes, squeezing a random image into something geometric

My new shoes splattered in the piss-scented puddle that accumulated last night when the rain funneled all the waste that once covered Mission Street into this very corner: THE DENT IN THE ROAD THAT I NOW SPLAT IN. I want to drink it, for some toddleresque, impulsive reason. Should I do it? Should I slurp that solitary drop that looks like innocent rain water when separated from the bog of human, mechanical and pigeon waste, all blended to contribute to this tiny innocent looking drop. SLLLLLLUUUURRRPPPPPP