strange labyrinth
this giant wound
you can't point out
from all obtuse matter
colliding inside you
yet
it alone
offers the privilege
of grinding your tongue
into a puree laughter
much tastier
than your aged spit
you avoid swallowing
and won't mention in your resume
because it would over qualify you
for any job except dreaming
but even if
managing to contain in a syringe
da vinci's thoughts
while he was painting
your judah mask
seemed
an easy task
and manipulating asexual actaeons
became fun and rewarding
and even if
the joy of programming
gave birth to acuate tv smiles
you didn't know existed
and guiding corrosive obelisks
through generation after generation
of retinae
didn't make the news
you still insist on swimming
in the chomolungman glee
of the evaporated river we