Originally published in Cockroach Conservatory, Vol. 2: The Glory of Man – The Rise and Fall of the Reality Soldier.
Postmodernism is an ink blot:
a menacing insect with the head of my abuser.
I tried showing it the depths of the unconscious
but it used this against me, said I’d go to jail
if I didn’t shut up and take its constant stinging.
The truth is a superposition of digital infinities:
you splotch the ink in the manner of your choosing
and I create the image in my mind, tell you what it is
and you burn an inch into my skin.
None of this should be interpreted
but when did that ever stop anyone?
Waking up several times a night is a black cat
sitting at my foot, a string in the shape of a symbol,
and a testament to the poverty of the stimulant
for the cigarette box instead of the mobile phone.