kiss my tungsten ore
The friends you made online
were thrown into the trash can
on account of showing effects of prolonged trauma.
One of them had cabinets
full of laboratory glassware
which were used to store aromatic bitter barks
of trees that grow due to the
stiffness of air in a room.
And all her love
for the one that used to get on her nerves
was found stored in a wooden caddy;
because it was all that there ever was.
They plucked her frenulum with a plectrum
and enclosed her speech in the third bracket-
this is what they do on discovering
your extensive use of words
on forgotten cases of melancholia.
But you cannot let the hopelessness get to you.
Do you want to be thrown into the trashcan too?
Gift a parchment made out of your own skin
as a memorabilia;
and a bunch of flowers
to the nexus of online writers
that build communities
and then anti-communal armies
in hopes of setting the world in a course
contrary to it's present one.
The insatiable need to classify
and to be classified;
to be put into categorical boxes
only to break free out of them;
creates a downward spiral of paradoxes
that appear to be marching upwards
where the rumours to a dead end reside.
You can only hope
you were the upper shell of a crustacean.
You can only hope
because you cannot let the hopelessness get to you.
You are who you are because you were sick
of the communal farce
and the guide to getting smacked in the head
and being pulled back to your origin
is written on labels stuck on the bottles
storing hallucinogenic alkaloids.
However, in order to avoid being thrown into the trash can,
you need to strike a balance
between the destruction of
dopamine secreting par compacta part
of your basal nucleus
and letting people kiss a tungsten ore
while calling it your ass.