Tort Law, reversed.

I Think I'll Call Him Walter.

I conjure up images in my head
for no reason at all. I think
they arrive to scare off the vagrants,
or perhaps to offer welcome. All they do is sleep,
and take up space ("the images or the vagrants?").
There are far more legitimate opponents
to overcome than those fucking demons. But they continue
to pick, pick, pick at every thought. And I am bored.
Lately they have been searching around
in the attic, pushing through the pink
fibrous fluff insulating the electric tangle.
It isn’t too dangerous to let them rummage, last I heard
most of that material is useless anyway.
Rarely do they find anything of value
(but that doesn’t stop them from trying to sell that shit on ebay).
Sometimes they trick me into joining them
in the mutilation (discount, decay, delete).
What the villains don’t realize is that
pilfering my reflections fuels my anger
and encourages my breath. They have been
diligent fuckers (pick, pick, pick).
So tonight, I should maintain
my creative endeavor well into bliss. (A bad habit?),
perhaps…It does keep me warm though and tells me when to eat.
So back to the images of vagrants, last night
I pushed a few of them out into the room,
in hopes that they would accompany me, at least
for a little while. There is one stubborn fucker
…that refuses to relent. It pokes me
and pushes my fingers to tap a line. Advice
is meaningless but the words sure are pretty.



p.s. what a shame another party dress ruined at the outing.


("Brought to you today by the letters: TINC and the number 0.")