if the floors could talk they would admonish you
lights be loose, sonic boom, reeks of illumination,
can you see the sounds? that's cosmic inflation,
wrecked be the norm as tracks wax poetic,
bodies tumble in sardine tins,
(sure, thing could be worse)
i heard you talking some what not, nonsense, hell no,
bending ears, pulling legs and saying in jest. you could be erased.
this is space and time suspended, its own circus, welcome.
a three-ringed rectangle, fourth world condition,
an mta disease