Parasites: they insinuate themselves
into your head, your heart, your art.
They exist in the schizophrenic zone:
the lower right corner of your painting
looking for patterns that go to childhood,
the well rehearsed gestures that
allow them to take over,
plant the image in your agitated brain
that makes you doubt your love,
sign over your entire identity,
make you think that they can kill
with a scrape of peach fuzz,
until everything smells, feels,
tastes exactly the same-
a collision of piss and water
that knows money and not art
is the iron that smoothes
out all those creases.
The concrete jungle is the exam.
Their goal is to dominate it.
You enter through the black portal
searching for the thing you lost
in the right corner a long time ago-
the thing you call son or daughter-
tapping out SOS with your forehead
on the button on the wall
that connects with the light outside
until it reads SON to that distant brain.
Whether you kill someone or betray
your country doesn’t matter.
It is just the thing you keep
hidden in the basement
that doesn’t know
that all it needs to escape
is to walk up the stairs.