Please do not wrap me in plastic assumptions,
nor diminish me to gutter headlines.
My life cannot be prescribed or described.
It twists and turns of its own accord;
a terrifying tumult of free choice and consequences.
I turn the clockwork of self-defeating mechanisms;
spring-loaded spikes pierce the pomposity
of delusion with alarming regularity;
A self-igniting firework,
Leaving burnt holes in the sofa of lived illusion.
I am an arsonist of norms and normality,
a bit-part protagonist of social disruption,
erupting like a volcano of impractical magma,
pragmatic dogmatism, optimistic nihilism
in splendid isolationism.
I am a fantastically feathered vulture,
pecking away at my twisted intestines
with self-doubt and grandeur, while sh*tting diamonds;
a twisted fish swimming in confusion having discovered
the sat-nav was not waterproof.
Speaking of electricity, which we weren’t,
I am entirely ungrounded,
and liable to trip the fuse of acceptability
with predictable regularity.