Den

Brain walls: bio-insulation keeps me cosy in my hidden room. Eye balls: bio-windows let me peer and sneer upon our filthy race, with Ear holes – bio-microphones – assuming tones I only wish to face. Inside, I flit between assimilation, fantasy, and desperation – each another room for me to occupy – as in a nest or burrow, a honeycombed hive – fathoming which to best survive in; harbour me from that outside. Shit! It’s just as bad in here – I need another den to hide in! So where’s a niche to keep me from the world, but also from my rabid head? Yes, of course –! it’s being dead. Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010 suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide