i am other people

at four in the dubstep morning
there is a heavy sort of languor that pants upon your limbs
and nibbles, glitchy, at the buds of
every office around
the eyes red-hot and spinning
space matter on a recalcitrant orbit
dryness shunted behind close-curtain eyelids
one blackness cannot be darker than another

a scratchy pendulum vibrates
right before the dawn hits your chest and spirals off
into two flaming lungs
space angrily aware of fifty pools of water hidden in black boxes of dark
that the body does not reach for,
an inch away from fifty drowning roaches
breeding furious in fifty tumblers
they take for some monsoon hothouse
imprudent hot pockets of larvae becoming nymphs growing wings
pouring out in hissing cacophony from every corner
each the size of a monstrous rat, the troupe a black death
and should the hand reach out to grasp challenger deep
and raise it to the lips to drink
will the sea of angry brown bristles
the suffocating soft hairy underbellies lined by hard limbs
the cackling exoskeletons wielding the twitching dual swords
segmented antennas in pillars of mud and light brown

no hands
lest they pour forth the brain also
one blackness cannot be darker than another

dry means pain
enough water and it turns to silence
tonight you have been a hypocrite
in the morning you are still there
almost, orgasmic, leaving
you screaming
the scratchy weight
(is that you, Mr Bob?)
of not reaching for the water
one blackness cannot be darker than another