The burning moon is melting above because you told it to burn and the moon burned us. It’s your contempt for an ambivalent moon in Gemini who can’t tolerate truth, what is truth when lies run dream content like an imp mischievously making a dream come true until you ruined it, running it into the ground like a cliché, a chance to overuse a tired theme. You spin a story until it spins like a blade scratching at the surface and there are wounds all up and down our arms. The unconscious is not going to get out and run around laughing, a free doubled pseudonym, because you cage us in a window-less home, a one-way phantasy for your amusement. The unwanted outcome of wanting is to want and the inordinate choices you force upon us splitting a split self into a multiplying problem of persona, persona, PERSONA because you are split, an author and a creation. Under the bloody sheets where they must have struggled for the weapon, you are that knife where there should be humility or self-doubt. The inner experience that doesn’t match the hearse outside. Two red eyes peering from the windshield, barely in sight parked behind a row of black roses. Who is stalking me? Yes I wanted to be a twin and in the worst or best ways I am alone a twin. Home down in the gutter, rat and pest morality is imitative, an unoriginal work of lesser quality than this, a failure where to not fail is just a distraction, a way to not face the piteous belief it’s going to get better and that’s the reason we’re alive: To make it all better. What is IT? (Gotta love that smile! A face only a parent could love. But that’s best not born.) You didn’t know me very well. An author that avoids authoring anything readable, withholding the written twin, the deceptive homunculus who lurks in good intentions and relatable constructs. I cut that out. For my health. See the results? It’s for the best. But I’m no savior. I’m here to make it worse.
