I wake up around four in the afternoon and make myself a cup of tea, turn on some hip hop and smoke some weed, stare at myself in the mirror, stare at myself in the mirror, play with my hair, look at my stained teeth, the plans I made the night before today hold no sway over now, overcome by rhythm and masculinity, dope in the bloodstream, and who can believe in time and mind when they both crumble beneath my feet, beneath simple rhymes and beats that cross my many mes, solid like my room I return to night after night, the airborne home, the hive, the box, the mouse traps, the balcony offering bright rooms and silhouettes, I masturbate with binoculars, angling myself between barriers, lines of sight, I stare at myself in the mirror, brush and scratch the itchy bits, my bathroom bin has no bag, food enters in salty waves and me, at fifteen my face was torn off in a ripcurl, he helped me with vomiting on a beach, and I knew one day certainly, we will stop us men hurting each other inconscious wars with ourselves, where everyone else is the casualty, the marketeers do not want us to believe in societies but I believe, because I fuck and am fucked with by celebrating angels every day, and look at myself in the mirror and say, it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s being ok, they are you, you are them, it's words not grammar that separates, it's isms and fictions causing schisms and frictions, the fake hates of mes in imagined communities aimed out but returning in, in mirrors I practice smiles for industrial romantics, because smiles make smiles like yawns make yawns, like you know I am saying more then words can hold, when we laugh at the sloppy definitions hurting our souls, asking rhetorical jokes, thank god we still somehow strut with flaming swords that know no lexical sheath, like flaming swords we live on words and live on words, to come to you in communication, to come to me in our mirror imitation of the idea of us in media lies, while we lie in clean furnitureless white rooms hoping hypnosis is a method not thinned by theory, easing off the thousands of messages a day saved into the empirical us, and there is no rooms or clutter, just the shape of wolverines, rapists, the patient anxiety, the fury when words will fail us, insulted by ourselves, but somehow we find lovers that know, sex is proximity and I don’t need to know you for you to me fuck with me, you are no less soft for having loved another, held hands, held bodies under sheets and covers, laughing in other languages at jokes grown warm and old, like we were rocks instead of chameleons, like our pulses have been traded for portable ESL dictionaries, updated via satellite, this is an age of indexing not information, this is an age where the most absurd garner the most support, where familiarity is fragile and kitsch is comfy, like primetime comedy, just give two minutes of me, genre free, in a mirror smiling and you will smile because if there is no truth there is no punchline, and I know I am laughing and your eyes are full of sympathy, and you do not care about the acne on my face, you do not care about the psoriasis that has defaced every part of my skin, sores, making my person a single single exposed membrane, a four legged frog reflecting environmental conditions, allergic to dust when it bursts in blooms sullying sterile hives, into rented air rooms floating, we remedy these conditions, with forced absurdity, learned in guidedimunguidedin deprogramming, learned over brown bags of glue, learned over lost innocence, huffing until we are no longer able to look back without laughing, no longer able to look, we are laughing.