The gentle spin of the primary colors,
Counterclockwise gyrations of nuts,
Clockwise turning of the bolts,
And the melting away of rivets in my mind,

All reminded me of when it was cold outside,
But lukewarm in your embrace,
As if the peaceful threads of my being -
Were twisted in your Viking braid,

Strewn over the thoughts you had at the secret beach,
Were my confessions for not being an adult,
Now they’re embroidered over my spine,
In the dialect of melancholy.

I can not afford to pay this ransom,
Demanded by a self-kidnapped consciousness,
The markets of all my interest have collapsed,
Now every second is bankrupt.

I’m on parole of a sensory prison,
A defective piece and a failed experiment,
I’m Prepared for a total annihilation -
Of parallel universes between my shoes and my feet

I know I used to be really strange,
But now I’m really just a stranger,
Digging dust on a golden highway,
Singing aloud in monologues.

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