a poetic jest

the asylum has no doors or walls, its just.
Standing is illuded by feet.
Cool weather is the illusion of blood.
bones are the map to where and why and teeth are radio.

chatter wild as we might,
Deplore or delight the ink from a squid
Despair is a video game, naught 0 to ponder, as it means nothing

But its means are, averaged and made angry with measure, and thus is the stock market. A pile of van haussen shoes like a doo rag top buggy smiling and winking with a custom horn and 32 straight cash dollars for the pleasure.

Wish you were here.