SlimDick

You will find me swaying in the current of the deep
Fading in and out of mournful sleep while others protect themselves onto me
I don’t mind.
This boredom I suffer needs distraction. The cloud of death which lies deep in me, the complexity of chess which I had hoped to be, the plough of boiling dreams which burn away inside the wishes I wail.
I’m not sure who first called me Slimdick, but I have matured from this posture and accepted its fate.
Here all has a name, a branding of fame, a visual game played like a silent orchestra.
There is no longer hunger for an eternal stiffness, I know it sounds lame, but its my mantra
And so I lull to conjure over the plate of unexcited days.
Sill hydroplaning over what this place is, day or night. Here they share themselves and confuse the muse, they are the same.
But I ask it continuously and ask myself as well, what of this place we dwell?
This is my ignorance’s pure chase for aspiration. A game I fear it has become, a play of which till recently I had none.
As I bid for clues, reaching out my long thinned hairs close to the bubble nerves of my base.
Like hands they scavenge this black blanket for its language, our language.
Like bands of unison they are all that inform me and tell me of my fate
They look without eyes and see without previous references, except those they themselves save in their hard drives, even my memory is scattered.
They are the very fibers which rectify me, erect me and identify me.
I am a Slimdick, the most boring figure here, in my forever dying Nigga leer, the farthest thing from a Christ figuring fear.
Who knows what I was when I was human, when made up whole, instead of the constant parts I piece now.
I should sue them, for my conjunction they stole, that which I now spread with a hardened heart and a stiff slow.
A human