who's melancholy state of stubborn shows him the hard place up close
and conjures a lucid quandary...
the dreamiest paranoia....
where's the rock...the rock...i want to fix the rock..
talk it into being my pal...
better yet my indolent solid stood apprentice...
but thanks, but no thanks...but...there is no rock...
just me...and my gloomy hand-carved hard place...
no student...no new chew toy
for my bootleg hug and kiss to tear in to ribbons...
worst of all...all my fuss and careful obsessing...frivolous...
it gets painted over with lacking and stuffed...grotesque with missing...
now fruitless...
i set meticulously sharpened traps...for bugs
with ferocious little mechanised insect crippling jaws...
and throw away my junior wizard cap and wand...
these pupils will be dinner and hopefully cephlopods...
now i can smile at the cut out moon and pretend...hardcore...
it's comical and made of cardboard...
in a while i scamper in its film about my quarters
collecting all the intricate sprung death bundles and free
the teeny-weeny thinga-magiggers...
dropping them in their bruised seeping abdomens into a jar...
one by...one...
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