Oz

Hollow is a cruel feeling,

Mixing whispers with nothingness,

Bloodying a plain mind.

Riddles are a kind concept,

Bleeding possibilities,

Filling enigmatic empty brains.

The fourth wall is hard to recognize Breaking to address the reader,

Winking at you right now.

I have no tales to tell.

It's all going to hell.

It went south with a smile here,

Key West, Florida, cigars everywhere,

Which I've never seen rolled.

We stayed at a beach house

And learned to bear the heat.

For what wisdom can heat hold?

Not a lot -- stirring atoms,

Shaking, combining, bumping,

Vibrating violently as if they're cold,

Causing us to not be.

Heat's a gubbin, a gubbin who

Yells about the state of the world,

The bottlecaps on the ground,

The 1930's Great Depression,

The height of the ocean.

Heat, one day, down there,

While we were corpses,

Said: "Copulate violently with a doppelganger."

Which translates, in the language

Of the heat, to "go fuck yourself."

At night every night I'd have this

Peculiar power -- an ability to

Feel nothing and everything all

At once. I would talk to the walls

About the feeling, an unpleasant

And still euphoric one.

I'm not I'm.

Always fresh, never frozen, heart,

Beat hard don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't touch me.

Therapy, being to all intents a

Maggot squiggling out of an

Eyeball, the eyeball being in the

Corpse of the dependent one, is

A helper, but it's tiring me out.

Rapid breathing breeds only

Flat affect, poverty of speech,

Anhedonia, agnosia, disorganization,

0-60 affect, and chronic emptiness,

To quote my psychiatrist.

(Who, in all honesty, is a

Real wet towel, that my brother uses

To whip my face.)

If such feelings shall come,

Does that show how I am dumb?

Shall I be hollow eternally?

I spoke. And rapidly started the denounment.

Is there an Oz for me?