From the Alleys of Starvation
This dark does not make me
blind. Just a pattern
ed window or wall. Maybe
two. Built [divided] and
labeled "blue." (How blasé.)
Prints of desire
are stacked to form a 3-
sided cell. O' feigned pain.
Drama is the true art(ist)
in this demented scene.
That I am stuck (stained
planed and trained) in for
this anesthetized frame
is a testimony to my elusivity.
Or was it my electricity?
Either way I am the conduit
against the luminosity.
Hit me. Flick me. Switch me.
Pressure is the key
that mark the stage.
Right?
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