Though they entirely lack rhythm,
three exasperating aspectsof your latest psychic schism
clomp around and dance and yell
until you think you’ll lose your mind.
Which is, of course, absurd
since they amount to all the mind
you currently can find – and they’re
not going anywhere. You think sweet
thoughts: perhaps they’ll sense you
care and they’ll stop being raucous.
But they keep up the ruckus.
“Don’t like it? Fuck us.”
It’s gone from worse to worst.
You think you’ll burst. And yet
you don’t. You guess you won’t.
.
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