the boats are people

clocks work like dead dolls, wiping the sanity you find usually intact.
I’m always surprised at the hour mark, moved by my movements, procured from curious impulses.

Zombie-like and freed from carnal desires, the fear of a lost battery or a grid-malfunction ends the thought to quest around, searching for lively dolls to litter my room.
UnFortunately, the Mickey Mouse Garfield Felix Bell Ringing bullshit charades build the walls with its very very own concrete mortar.

The mix—dead bodies and their precious sinewy tendons, dead lives burning with rage at the broken heaters, crushed up cheese-its and cobwebby dust. If it all works out as planned I’ll ride my body-boat back to its origin.

And, later admitting defeat, carried away with syphillycho—my nose flesh sloughing off periodically—

I’ll scream to any nearby periodical owner,
”THE WALLS ARE PEOPLE!”

you would not believe livin’ on the earth planet.