[some are afraid of the journey and the room
(I'm scaring them now)
I am shaking the "road" for bones and ashes]
I'm up against my culture-selves again
it's hard to distinguish calm black from night
disobedience plays like I refrain
bagatelle language is a written fright
[some move quickly into the rust in orange jumpsuits
(I'm arresting them now)
I am splitting the "eye" with a pick axe]
society against a stilted light
an answer I concocted isn't plain
the words are so arranged to convey spite
this poetry is a pulled-taut terrain
[some have found their ways out through windows and air ducts
(I'm escaping them now)
I am taping the "hand" to the lever]
a "what" is difficult I ascertain
the music is castrated and polite
song features “I” reduced to the mundane
a pontificating eyeball is sight
[some remain unidentified even mythical
(I'm telling their tales now)
I am holding "X" to my breast]
my conflict will be read like I rewrite
disobedience runs like I refrain
I choke-crafted loneliness to my right
I've defeated my culture-selves again
(a third party introduced them to their chosen fetishes)
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