Havok

 backwards
in circles
a circle squared
twisted, paired
lifted from the ground
a different texture
in only sound,
a shifted gear
the difference hear
the playing song
is only here
and tasted by
the dark on this side
of the moon
if only in cartoons,
and cereal spoons
fly around my head
in the emptiness
of this room,
I look a little
to one side,
taste the darkness
spit it out
and look for some
thing better
than black butter
and the letter opener
is found,
sparkling
on the ground,
the floor, while
appliances talk
and talk with
a voiceless
electric hum
and I listen
for a topic
but none ever comes
they drone away
lifelessly alive
listing endless
cycles of shatterproof
demise,
or perhaps ticketed
episodes of triviality
summarized,
and still I sit
and listen to them hum
listen listen listen
and wait for them
to provide definition,
then my ears pick out
a new sound
echoing somewhere
between
the ceiling and
my ear
a quiet, empty one
that whistles
come near
come here
come near and hear
and listen to us
as we whisper
the electric hum
that makes us run
that makes us run
and makes you run
and makes you run
‘cause we don’t taste
anything but fun
anything, anyone
but fun is what is done
for future lies
and fortune dies
and effort flies
with simple wings
of flightless eyes
and brightly tethered
people who
cannabilize
their own emotions.
Or perhaps it is I.