Scraps of Reason

Cheap tinned food lines the walls of this womb
a year's supply piled high  
labels in careful alphabetical order

I have taped my eyelids half shut
boarded windows, plugged my ears
and flicked the switch for feelings to off

Now, but only just  
every time the front door slams
the shock seems less than the world ending

There is snow in 'cisco, blood in the desert
the totter of a threadbare empire
waiting for the rule of dust

So is it the devil
or god squeezing pus
from a chicken's eye?