i'm in a strange position
where i carry out an imposition
against the concept of eye,
uncanny imposition
set to the beat
of some amateur trip-hop song
(tell me who sings).

i'll remember this day as the day i did wrong
and dinged a ding-dong and behaved like a doG,
justifying myself as an simple example
of poetic license. i sense insane sanitry
trapped in a can where crackhheads smoke crack
and i don't evenusually rhyme about that.

(i swear i'm alright, with ezra pound's wrote
whispering 'bout the music of words
and borges blinding in tones
of a minor piano pianissimo lead melodid-i create this song?
a pure passion sympoem? synths are boring
when you have no concept of past
or Time or Future or impetuos cats,
right, rype, i'll be right back).

dear strange-positioned me:
keep singing your lines
& smoking(or dropping) your past.