i suicided myself, it was lazy
you can sit there and pontificate about crazy
but the instruction manuals taught me this
there's a gap in my head where the world translates
that cockroaches scuttle across
to kiss synapses with decay
this was another red letter day
and i'm breathing in spores of information
to quantify the dislocation
it's not fucked up just uncomfortable
there's a point to the angular posture
it's called the golden square
tracing your eye down through a pie of fibonnaci's curve
barry white told a lie of love called lurve
i'm spitting out basho pips to seed windfall haiku
spinning through an erroneous orbit that lies to itself
the black hole has a crush on me
and distorted light and time cinches about my neck
like a garotte of licquorice
all this restirring aniseed information
varnishes my tongue and stuns my heart
i'm sucking on a needle i call beesting
dreaming to lick the honey from my baby
and you sit there and pontificate on crazy
with your social commentator gravitas
i'm an empirical behaviourist
that's why i slashed each wrist
but it's pathetic, just so i could write another poem
the guy who hung himself last week, i know him?
he's whispering in my ear
that i have to go because St Peter's here
can't you hear him ringing the door bell,
speaking in babel tongues of text message prophecy
that unwrap new jerusalem's limpid sea?

poke out the one seeing eye and you're no longer king.

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