Clammy, corroded, caldron of chaos, this block.
It's vista points and its spanish-ish ness-es--
Muddled footsteps
yelp as the clock strikes early.
But remember how blasé it used to be, in the sun.
You couldn't please me with captions or
sprinkled jurisdiction. Everything was, might be, IS,
so out of control. I'm noting
this distraction of sleep. (Like hundreds of us in cells, panting).
Chit Chat, Chatter bug, let me free. Why, unleash me Monsieur.
Gingerly getting out of bed, the worst of my confetti idea's.
The death in the air,
the vomit.