I love your boringness

My reversed recollections turned into tiny stone cherubim,

and they crumbled to crimson powder in the room;

their slow waltzer from corner to corner

made a whirl, and it scorched my windpipe;

the caused warm-edged imagined wounds

were like climbing roses on the cartilage.

I was slumbering. All my memories might be
a chortling swindler of protection from unnecessary pondering.

This is a colourless-walled constant rotting in a tiny room.

There are no bloodening epigraphs on the wall.

No demons, no effects. No art.

The high-density air body follows the walls

and tries to have choked me with its voiceless movement, 

I am reading the news

watching the photos in articles

I see hopeless predators who love themselves, 

and love this blossomed psychosis of the tepid
excrement-ocean of networks
filled with narcissistic crocodiles. 

Where I am now, This was my kid's room.
Visited my parents as I noticed I have a history
that just happened. Why did it happen?
Why couldn't I jump from birth to demise immediately?

Does it sound like a ridiculous question from a man

who cannot appreciate his life? Yeah, exactly.

I am still in that room.

The chandelier's shadow is flying between the wall

and the cupboard as a burning medusa, and all voices are

a dancing billet, and they bang the wall.

Is this building a venue or accommodation?
Was I born here?
I would think it. This kind of imperfect being like me
should curl up in the corner of the deepest
thoughts of the room, And after every tiny move,
they should fall down to the linoleum.
"Hey, Sisyphus, jump up and fall down."
You must love that boulder. 

your tired body is rolling on Hade's hand;

sit down and tell me how I should survive.

This house is my family's aquarium

my guppy-eyed parents are floating in this Jelley,

Should I be happy here?

Heartless plastic purgatory
where I can smile for all eternity. Yes, that old room,
In my parents' house. The teen's secrets.
I can remember Nigi; she was my best friend.
Once, she showed me her soft, furry labia.
It had an angelic, wet smile. And
Our virginity has melted into a funny dog pose attempt.

All these moments of our sexual purity,

teenage chats, sighs, cries,

and music listening are still there.

Our cheerful nowadays can see them and laugh at them.
This pseudo-mocking is just our self-protection against
confession and honesty.

Is silence the secret covering of my androgynous psyche?

The saliva trickles from the life-layers mouth.

It might be sleeping. Is it an illness? 

Or, it is a friendly keeper of consciousness

who wants to find tomorrow morning.

Are we balloons filled with empty souls?

Are we orphaned nanoseconds lost by our thoughts? 

I cannot sob; I never laugh at you;
So, Should I celebrate then what this day has vomited

into my lap so far? It contains a small portion of gloominess
mixed with half-digested pieces of carrots.
I got soured, entirely confused
and the honesty, or what I considered as it is honesty,
disappeared or had never existed.
We are the joke of the universe.
I am kidding too. Ce n'est pas important. 
I want only to be dull with you.
On Sunday, getting bored together, is it real love?
Of course, I do not know.