Brain walls: bio-insulation keeps me
in my hidden room.
Eye balls: bio-windows let me peer
upon our filthy race, with Ear holes – bio-microphones –
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
but also from my rabid head?
Yes, of course –! it’s being dead.