the mind is vast
w/o edges
perhaps perpendicular…
there’s a chimney
in its floor
three maybe four doors
none with knobs
and a giant Monopoly board
as its ceiling…
poetry plays in the pipes…
in the distance
an aroma of serendipity lingers
albeit abstract…
paintings of people no one knows
pollute the palace
all of them
with their eyes closed
smiling
with illnesses that have no name…
once, there were thoughts
being born here
but no more…
now, there’s only filth.
silt and soot.
at the foot of the bed
lie the dead
never to rise again.
here, war rages without end…
no beginning but birth.
the girth of which is unfathomable.
foreign tongues
guns without gravity…
sanity severed from sincerity.
no room to pause.
causation is a casualty of the cranium.
random words cross the screen…
screams capture chaos.
and in the end there’s only death—
