FROM AN HALLUCINATORY.

Neuronal overload in Broca's Fold
a circuit shorted turning self-talk
          into a voice-over
          You say excite
                     I say inhibit.

Overload? Overactivation in the left
superior temporal lobe. Better than what
          to have your shitty
          self-deprecation
                     broadcast out loud?

A mute in a mafia overcoat
would have more fun at a
          funeral than I have
          weaving through this maze
                     of tortuous wording.

An I traces back to source
following traceries of dropped speech
          ack-ack hauled from the edge
          hurled abuses defuse him (I) with
                     chemical of their (our) choice.

Complexities become (increasingly)
undetermined: philosophers' shit
          becomes wisdom insufficient:
          fools' glitter: did you just snap
                     me with your pen, fuckface?

The low drone soothes. The high squeal
is your (their) soul wanting out.
          The stone rolls back & forth
          in its groove: day, night, day
                     & the damned, interminable words.