stillfugue

Your computer loves to fool you, play tricks.
You thought random radio, Nine Inch Nails Channel,
would boost your energy, would get you to work,
but those chips they found all the evil,
they serenaded you with the world’s hate,
and all of the world hates you to pieces.

The house crawls with the silence of aloneness,
disturbed by dogs dreaming, twitching their legs
violently, and you are floating below the floors.
There is beauty to the day outside the windows,
but it is frigid, and isn’t that how your world is?
Look at the beauty but do not touch it.

Your pattern, you swim into the stream of cyanide
with hornets flowing low and aggressively from the hotel.
A man in a blue truck that looks like a vicious truck
from the movies with all of the violent killing,
and the driver is big-bellied, with angry German
mustache and arms flailing like jelly fish.

You play cowboys and Indians and no one
joins you but the arrows are heading crooked
through the streams of hornets looking to lose
stingers, you watching your CD player obliviously,
hoping for more Nine Inch Nails, knowing that
there is no medicine for you and no good music.