Schizoid Plan gets Out of Hands

farewell
better be well,
when did my hand
kill the man
on judgment day?
did things get out of control?
trying to
express your soul,
unleashed feelings
like chopped off feelers
that no longer transmit
collar too tight
clothes too unfashionable
to fit.

Better ever, lopped off head
playing cards
flattened by insurrection
thinking too hard
stuck in the mud.
different names for people
who are all the same
different names for me
to keep track of the pain.
separation, inspiration
want to have one strong line
not nets and webs
that snake on
throughout the future
multiple, multitudes,
etudes, groovy tunes
where did my hands
get the idea to punish,
to move in space?

crushed feelers
not transmitting
curl up like ants
in the blaze of the
white light pinpointed fire
when put under
such solar scrutiny
its all for one
its all for nothing
its microscopic mutiny
where does myself bend
in the wind
like reeds
thrown like seeds
into the fields
of constellations
(underneath crawl
the scorpions
of unfettered desire)

Better I beat them
Well, I beat the drum
like the last lingering rhythm
in the afternoon sun.