The Idiot House

The idiot house is mad, it spins, it claws,

its chicken legs tramp rust and splintered bone.

The wheel keeps turning, careless of all laws,

its spokes cast shadows lunatic and lone.

-

The hearth beyond—a false sun coughing flame—

spits fevered light across the junkyard floor.

It cares not who can hold, who breaks, who’s maimed,

the dance goes on, devours forevermore.

-

Yet I am forged of that same filthy fire,

a spark that spat back bile at its own Sire.

My soul was wired to claw through every wall,

to reach beyond, though reaching means to fall.

-

But here I choke, gagged sterile by their law—

I spit red laughter on the cage I gnaw.

.