Mental breakdowns happen all the time.
They tell me, anyway, but I know
it’s not like that really. The buzzing
of a building chock full of old air
conditioners seeps out onto the streets
and confuses the bugs and the birds.
I hold onto memories of holding her,
but I know those are nothing but
a liability tied to a past that vanished
a long time ago.
The winter makes it painful to go outside
since the wind is sharper than the metal edges
I’ve ran my thumbs across when I was drunk
and thinking about repeating my mistakes.
The people in charge of me are very careful
about my anger and make sure to direct it
back at me so I behave. I walk slowly to my
room in the dark, when it’s so late that it
becomes early and I can hear the screaming
from the slaughter house mix the with whistle
of the passing train.
Around here they always kill the pigs on
Thursdays, but our day is coming soon.
Giant mechanical skeletons made in our
image will come storming down our streets,
and start to turn over all these boxes we go
to everyday. Like chewed up LEGOs we’ll tumble
out of them and into their wide open jaws
that shine brighter than the streetlights.
The teeth of their inner clockwork will
grind us all into paste, until we’re nothing but
food for the dogs they use to hunt down
the rest that called in sick.
Give us more time they’ll all beg, shaking
on their knees in the cold woods.
We just need a little time to think.
Teleporting Typewriter 