I.
Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
where the call of sleep is sent from mini-skirted bestiality
I sleep seduced, I wake reduced to Minotaur’s appeal
and no razor’s manhunt stands a chance on copping a warm-blooded feel
No recourse in the alcohol, no recourse in the drugs
No fulfillment in sobriety or intervention’s soggy hugs
The case of this default malaise has stumped all inquiries
bent on ascertaining flora from this fauna’s self-indulgent freeze
I’m not happy, I’m not sad
I don’t miss the future that I had
I’m fated to a ramble’s dance
It’s safer than a calculated trance
II.
My lips are burning from the kiss of fiction’s sustenance
Tongue of no saliva, thank you for the words I’m too afraid to mince
Attuned to this egregious sermon of reality
Crumbs of dreams swept off the floor of sleep I feed to moot banality
Felicity is in the cards but I can’t find the deck
If a kiss declines an encore, don’t think I’m too proud to seek a peck
The truth is honourable, yet in fiction I persist
in my mission to retain permission to claim matter from this mist
My potential was a fad
This outcome is all I ever had
I left hypotheses to chance
when I took home a calculated trance
III.
Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
I have memorized the platitudes of my humane finality
Intrepidly I bathe in tepid fiction’s sea of shrugs
No recourse in medicinal alcohol or aromatic drugs
The brain evokes a bubbled labyrinth in bare attire
Servant to its swish of chemicals, I tread and breast-stroke in the mire
of whims it propagates and drolly fascinates me with
till I’m sick of its reality and somehow talk it into myth
I know happy, I know sad
Yes this knowledge serves to make me glad
A shame the walls of circumstance
impede it from my calculated trance
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