Crawling on my broken glass insanity,
Through the din of the day,
Kafka makes his way,
To his refrigerated asylum under my hair grey,

I want to smash this surrealist cockroach,
This tubercular German Jew,
Crooked existential slue,
I want to squeeze his head with my shoe

But as I stare down at the splinters of my sense
Arranged like mirrors in an infinite recursion,
Whispering about my deliberate subversion,
I’m baptized by a sudden cosmic inversion

It dawns on me then, like it dawned on him,
We’re all horrid vermins, crawling,
With parasitic expressions on our faces sprawling,
Banshees screaming afore mirrors drawling

The surrealist cockroach checks it‘s antennae,
Scurrilously waves a feeler at my face,
And then, as if it’s loosing this race,
It scurries along and leaves no trace.

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