does anyone know
what its like to have a
gang-bang going on in their head –
to be entertained by fear,
to have termites eating the sticks
that hold them together?
when we are gone, we are gone.
why is it that while we are here
we get so good at dissociation and
become addicted to distraction;
convinced we have all the time
in the world?
what ghost will wear masks
to our funeral – what whisper will
contradict our corruption?
on the slab of truth
which of our intentions
will be left believable?