I see your face inside the vomit clouded white upon my wall
And now I see your hi within the very space you smoked it all,
Dreaming spaces of clear screens but trapped in Landscapes:
Artificial eyes that mirrors artificial life, I see.
Glasses on or glasses off: glass houses fixed with cardboard locks.
Within your Mother’s hair are holes but flowers in your tapestry
She wants to see your garden burn/
Fixated on your malady.