When I hold the pen,
it trembles in my hand; the poem.

The catharsis.
Zero minus, to no to everything
against the main stream.
You start kinking.

Gawking?
Every night I carry my glitches
to bed, to fight my demons.
Falteringly, you speak:
it should not have happened.
The genetic aberration?

Nudges the crass exhibition
of alphabets of exorcism.
You invoke the dumb gods, who will
not vacate the accelerandos.