the bass is pumping,
like fists on jersey’s shores.
actually, that’s a pretty bad analogy.
really, it’s like a bugatti
driving through this dim light room:
quickly.
just… quickly.
i drift through the harmonies,
through wind tunnels and bastard couples joined at the hips.
i’ve been blind to see since my soul was squeezed.
i’m wandering,
wondering,
why?
i need a second,
i need a second to think.
pause.
i’m told this is reality,
but i don’t feel real.
haven’t for days.
i’m lost and dazed in this dreamworld.
a wanderer,
wondering,
why.
un-pause.
this poem is not a realization.
nor an outcry.
it’s just a statement.
a truth.
truth is not stranger than fiction.
rather,
truth is fiction.
and both are strange.
truth is.
and.
fiction is.
how existential.