Kill

I want to kill the acrid taste in my mouth
and fly
like Robbie Robot
high

dissolute and landing
to the eclectic
feedback
spilling TV
that leeches from beneath a bedroom door

and inside
the shattered synapse
lies
a young boy
spilling sparks
like
two babes conjoined
and cholic

spinning dull rhythm
blades
that overhead
the thin night