Days of dreaming in fake greenhouse lights where computers compute
and I’m redundant maybe one day obsolete?
I can’t work with numbers, fractions are just distractions,
signposts pointing in the wrong direction
long division subtraction sex friction and how do you read a map?
Along the easting? Up the stairs?
Boy meets girl girl meets boy meets boy meets girl on girl
Hand jobs blow job in the back of taxis,
midnight becoming a.m. Snorting cocaine in cubicles where the smell of effluence is overpowering but you don’t care because you smell it everywhere
every single second of every single day
from when your mother pushed you out and she
shit on your head and the student doctor laughed
and you’ve never forgotten the thing you need to remember
but it’s there,
I am a 6 figure grid reference.
I am alpha numeric.
I can be broken down and filled.
I am data.
I am captured on tape.
I am DNA.
I am Superman flying in red fucking pants