poem: I have lost reality many times

and yet she always come back, that unreliable bitch.
you’d think I could let my organs run off in snot safety
for several hours and not return to disgusting wherewithal
when I shower or finally sleep, as if everything
wrong with me was merely situational. I can write claims
in mad tongues that I am also doomed or
insane the strings inside my head too busy fucking themselves
to connect thought with thought, the mine-cart tipped and all
the workers on strike and no gold no market share, and all
the clocks springing up like hitler is at the door, leaving their
gears and small feminine wires in the hands of whatever
whomever probably that cute boy from last november who saw me
and then saw too much of me and then
left anyway the clocks are fucking hopeless I have no clock
I wake up at 3 p.m. and eat like it is midnight and then sleep
with the dawn the outside world in a sharp veer of sideways
color and missed calls I cannot get to anything on time because
the idea of what I have to do will not line up
in my head never mind a future what the fuck is a future anyway,
I can live in unrest knowing unhappily that eventually
I will re-possesed (or de-possessed?) by my older other self and she
will demand self-improvement, career advancement, possibly
also relationships. the cute boy will startle away like a rising fawn
when he sees the several versions of myself his eyes holding the sunrise
and the fright of myself but at least I have seen the reflection
of the next morning and the return of the king his eyes
very tired and glassy when he finally slumps into his throne.

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