I heard the fan retching
sporadically.
The free will and spontinuity of machine.
It hit like a hammer every time,
that was the one and only guarantee.
And so,
god willing,
I moved my seat.
prepared and willing to accept nothing but pure;
unrefined concentration.
Flashback so, so many years ago.
I was woken to my ceiling crumbling down
and yes,
I did scream.
How strange,
yet strikingly funny:
At this age
I still fell like the walls are narrowing
and the ceilings are caving in.

was it ts eliot or whitman?
whoever.
that coined the lowercase "fuck you" attitude
of some punk poets capitalizing on a caseless sensitivity
a revolutionary amongst man and his lifeless linguistics
why so modest?
an "i" becomes more and more subservient
demurred into a complacent and braindead contentedness
humility at its finest.
it was never the aesthetic of rebellion
like catching a sentence half dressed
completely desensitized.
a period so irrelevant,
even the beats gave a shit for a hot minute.
there is nothing all that special about you and i
let us keep it that way.

a shattered wrist reaching out towards
the undeniable scoffing of all your trophies
smudged with prints and at-home stitches
no.
they just dont make them like they used to
but really, where to start?
there were yellowed grinning polaroids
and heart shaped confetti
under the glass that was replaced
next to the soot in the fireplace
that would remain in indefinite disuse
i was in love
and you
you were a stone
moss covered but proud
stubborn and bruised
likened to a broken bottle
christened this humble ship
sailing clear past my head
and into complete nothingness

god himself did see sparks
in a sense
infinite
and unconditionally yours