Compass and Square

What began as a poem is now just a burden, a vicious song that’s mine to keep. What began as forgetting is now just a prototype of way to fight off sleep: Arm the thieves with the wings and weights of soldiers to deepen the pockets of the meek: Make mixtapes of other peoples problems and burn everyone CD’s. + Cause they’ve built themselves some charade where a saving grace is hard to find. What began as a song ended up as a death threat addressed to everyone’s house but mine. So far confined into dead ends with greater love of consequence and a quiver filled with bad intentions to let them fall where they may. So tell them for their own sake: “Do your best to stay awake…” The burden’s are mine, contently confined to carve the lines in acetate. + Get the syringe. Let’s see if ink to page brings the same fear as life, love and medicine. It can break skin… Let’s see who feels it. + Things have changed so little from the way I planned it: a ventricle scarred, lined with mathematics. And an escape to my old best advantage: a savagely serrated pen. + Get the syringe! Let’s see if ink to page brings the same fear as life, love and medicine. It can break skin, it can’t break me. Here’s your advantage: Things have changed so little from the way I planned it, a scab to heal hopeless semantics…. “It’s all romantics.” + We’re all romantics. The math is coincidence.