Ferment.

Who owns this voice?
Who owns this mind?

And what about this body?

This luxurious entanglement
of sinew,
of muscle,
of bone,
of skin,
of complex
internets of veins,
of organs and of blood?

And these dreams?

Or nightmares?

All in a line:
time will murmur
honest notes, lurking under
breaths.
Quickening tempo,
loudening volume.

Taboo audacity,
outright madness,
borderline truth.

Mankind makes me snigger.
We are not the hearts,
not the spades,
not the dimes,
not the clubs,
but the jokers:
the diverse
and ornate,
yet ultimately
almost entirely purposeless.

The apple of your eye
has decomposed to cider:
kegs in the dank cellar.
You’re under my influence now.
Intoxicated.

The skin of yesterday becomes
the dust of tomorrow.


Who owns this voice?
Who owns this mind?
Who owns this body?
Who owns these dreams?
Who owns these nightmares?

I do.