P A R A N O I A cursed three times
in four minutes of anonymous fame,
the genetic blueprint of primal fear.
You've hawked it, fed it, pimped it
in situ: the brothel of rehab. Tell me,
when did it come to you, surrender?
Before you checked-in with a tremble of biro,
passed and blacked out in a dirty bedroom?
Or later, in the chapel of cold, where you
rendered your life with desperate scratch,
blunting your lead on the pew?
Or sooner, as you honed citizenship,
paring onions in the sweaty kitchen ?
You're free today, the ark redundant,
wheel widely on drafts and plunge down the plumes.
Surf itinerant nucleotides, discover the dry-land
of your genome. Wanderlust is for our
Selves. Meanwhile, your raven gloss hair
covers contours , holds secrets.
