Quaalude

The splatter of faces,

the friction,

karmic assload

of plastic trees

and fake-happy,

some of it wears off

on contact like

devoutly bruised apologies,

the slippery

hitting

and missing,

the glide on by

in this one aimless season

after another

when you are

too much

indoors

on and off

looking

for a stirring.

What you pick up

you hold – particles

fall, some remain

others are brushed away

and this

is how it starts

and never

ends,

just layers

textures you touch

and become.

Left for hours wasting,

the room

is sealed,

its corners are yours,

the comfort

of the screenshot,

glaring frenzy

of color in what light

you have left. Answer

your hunger.

Limp and slightly aching

from the damp

mattress
arise: you have no secrets.