Cloned alone
in a cyclone of neurosis,
it’s little known but like drones
we’re all prone to our own psychosis.
A ghost is haunting my awakening,
taunting and hastening,
the fragmenting stagnation
of my imagination,
perpetrating what amounts to a mental molestation,
I’m a self-incarcerated slave who now craves emancipation.
But I’m torn between to masters: the divine and a disaster
for one I kill the Albatross
for the other bath in alabaster.
My train of thought’s got engines on both sides,
they rip me apart from the inside
circle my one-track mind
and then collide
in a colossal collage and I’m barraged by
thoughts of who I was and who I want to be
who I am and who I ought to be
I swear it hurts me bodily,
yet oddly ,
sometimes I still refrain from living godly.

from Resented EP, Mofu Heavy Industries, 2001.
Words © Cyril Guérette for P(r)o(ph)etic Productions.