Brain walls: bio-insulation keeps me
cosy
in my hidden room.
Eye balls: bio-windows let me peer
and sneer
upon our filthy race, with Ear holes – bio-microphones –
assuming tones
I only wish to face.
Inside, I flit between assimilation,
fantasy, and desperation – each
another room for me to occupy –
as in a nest or burrow, a
honeycombed hive –
fathoming which to best survive in;
harbour me from that outside.
Shit! It’s just as bad in here – I need another den to hide in!
So where’s a niche to keep me from
the world,
but also from my rabid head?
Yes, of course –! it’s being dead.
JCMT
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