Why does one have no sense of humour?
One is married to security as a sewer to its pipe.
Or a ghost to its whitish form, a wasp to its only sting.
What, this paranoia? Liquid hands, they shaft at keyholes that give no light.
This craft of acting, a fear of pretending, and yet seeming not so.
Display, reactivity as the form that almost solidified into false hope, limitation, that, gasping from the edges of its conscious perimeters, admires, loosely, idiotically, wedged on the field like a daytime cricket.
These flats again loom, the church of robot-men.
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