room number TBA

where narcissists meet, dripping tongues turning poetry into grease, saliva drenching the page with wholesale slaughter, red ink turning blue. crass undergarments toss and turn beneath silky fabric. the air is hot with humid words as they sit with their perfect posture and imperfect tense; with the implied tea on the table - as shallow as the ink on the page, depths plumbed nought. eyes glued to their own work alone; the egotistical disregard numbs their already callous hands, hands spent twiddling the pen and patting their own backs as they dabble words onto the page and stand back and smile. and now they meet, trilling to their inaudible tunes and hearing but not listening to the noise of others. symphonies lost in the chasm.

locks put on their hearts and veils over their eyes and ears and dented chests (punched by some ravage of the past), they throw away the key into the cups of tea and drink them to their veins and absorb the key into blood that spills on the page. quite chilling - the words they say, filling up their bosoms with triumph while disaster is the dew settling on the leftover glass, the previous day. slivers of ocean hearts and starfish wheels pillowed on moments of trinket-trades and glinted laughter.

a crazed spiral can be seen in their eyes, a worm wiggling its way around the brain, wrapping up thoughts and leaving trails of gush and gore on the membranes, the creases, the cracks; electricity is zapped out of it by then. frail and dry, ideas parched of rain water, puddles form at their feet as rain soaks them through the skull into dreadful locks. and they've swallowed the key, and so continue to wallow about in a foggy pride shadowed by shame, touching at the toes (they bow their heads to look). meaningless release of vehement despair and electric tunnel fraught with self-indulgence and blanket stares and a cataclysm of shouts and nightwalks alone, an earth-shaken peace that freezes the tongue that still drips with solipsist pride and suspicion and scorn of the paper slip ideas that glaze across their eyes. still trapped yet free in their vocal objectives and questionable merit. in the room, they meet and continue to drawl the slaughtered words they dug out of a pit and shined and hyped. but the words are still corpses, and they (the writers too) are shells.

try and try we might; it's a fluid war with slimed language ripped from dark corners of your head, visible if you beam through the gaps in your eyes. 'is someone there?' no. 'anything there?' no. fake tarnished ideals sullied by the self.