poemy thing

Debauchery in the cellar.
Locked up but the blinds shift uneasily
people are oscillating upwards
geese honks in the park.
Altogether needs they shift constantly
sidewards move the beings body
tired sit along a bench
buzzing fingers on the horizontal
Three eyes blink simultaneously
the two close for good.
And the third wakes drowsily.
Creepers, maskers, foiled and fond
of being objects not tools. Practiced at slowly
shutting down and degrading
in order to torment us.
But they are us. Isn't that wonderful?
People torment themselves. Doing so they
hopefully realize that they are not in the right
place in the right time as the
right person. Then maybe they can get help.
Instead of believing that everything else is the cause.
Call out to others.
Even if you are maniacally insecure and silly
and foolish and a wild creature!
Be that.
Own up to it and the
caffeine and habits and damaging shit that's fun to do,
At least in memory.
Who is wise?
All shimmers with dew All glimmers
with starlight and black stone
and things flame up from fields of red soil
and lay about
panting lovingly at the insanity of the asphalt heat
and smokey indoor shop
that should close up this time of year. But all is sweaty.

Or cool detached poolside
winter side bundled
freezing stomach ache
crampleg living
cooler night
coldest freeze
hoarfrost frogs
and rain.