Its syllables speak of
suburban stripmalls,
serial murderers,
supermarket tabloids,
the media of trivia,
a bland hamburger experience
where the tongue is stung
by the taste of snot-burning horror,
but only that and nothing else,
grinding away endlessly,
spinning and grinding
like a wino with the jitters, sometimes,
a rusty dusty old machine, sometimes,
but mostly just cold white thunder
resolving occasionally into porcelain against your forehead.
Your head's on the toilet rim.How did you get here?
It is.
You're staring vacantly at the wall.
The sweater of your memories ripped apart
yarn by yarn by yarn.
By yarn.
By yarn.