The traumatic childhood is spent often
as a spectator of arguments. Arguments
with no point, and no direction anywhere.
Aimless rage tossed on each other
in wild comparisons to dogs
and ragged prostitutes, fascists, and the crazed.
The punched wall like a base drum
in an endless symphony that plays
while sleep is searched for in the dark.
Walls can only hold back so much
and through them all leaks the poison
of the private.
We adjust each other’s words like schizophrenic
room decorators. The abstract space of feeling
less than is the medium for the metallic tasting
statements made with bleeding bright red eyes.
Ice skating on each others thin lines removes
the only membrane in the way of some colossal
beating fist shaped bluish core.
The giant robots being built by self aware satellites
light up the sky on holidays. The show is for all ages
and that includes those under bridges
having flashbacks off the fumes of passing cars.
Still there is always the swing set at the park
that they sneak out to at night, and compare
the beatings in whichever ways they come.

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