Poezja

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.