Electric TVs

You're too stupid to be AI

And at one point that would've

Made me hate you, but now,

It fills me with this buzzing,

Feral sound of desire . . .

Something lodged between

The hemispheres of my brain,

Riding the jagged lines of

E L E C T R I C I T Y

Like it's got somewhere to go.

Can you hear the sound of it

Humming along the live wires

Forming the architecture

Of the power lines of my soul?

Listen to it fizz along the rocky

Coast of my cranium . . .

This isn't tinnitus, but

E L E C T R I C I T Y

Following submissive paths

In search of something grounding.

It's a black and white overlay

In the middle of my brain.

Bits and pieces rubbing shoulders

Until they blur into dirt,

Sodden soil begging for

E L E C T R I C I T Y

That is what lives in the middle

Of my erratic brain when it

Starts to think of hunting you.

That's what's happened, isn't it,

A phenomenal collapse of order

Following the sheer, undeniable

Beauty that is the unrestrained

E L E C T R I C I T Y

Pulsing through your grey matter,

The slipped turns of phrases,

And ill-spoken rhymes

That never made any sense.

There is an idiocy to you that

Heat the corridors of my thoughts

With images of your kind of . . .

E L E C T R I C I T Y

Passing into me in a way that bars

Logic from entering.

Isn't that such a pretty thought,

Losing the ability to hear the

Clarity through the fuzz.

Sometimes it glows neon in my mind,

Jagged dreams all bleeding out their

E L E C T R I C I T Y

Buzzing and humming and raising

The hairs on the back of my neck

As though the vibes have taken

To hunting me through knee-high

Mud, the humming fights

Between the hemispheres of the soul.

The soul is broken by the dreaming

E L E C T R I C I T Y

That lays strew upon the rocks,

Twitching with unmet desires,

Dead things between the hissing snow

Shimmering on the TV,

Dancing under my fingertips.

I can't turn the channel and rid myself

Of the muted sound of your

E L E C T R I C I T Y

The pull of your white-noise soul

Is a consuming thing inside of me.

The rhythm of my existence

Wraps around the decaying sound.

It goes neither up nor down,

A madness of hung motion.

And I am held in the middle,

Neither here nor there after all.