Between the devil and the deep blue screen

Here is where you find me.
In the ballsed up tangled
parts of your brain.
In the fallow fields of imagination
In the transcendental inefficiency
of traffic jams and social media.

Here.
In the back of the kitchen,
underneath the mould in the mayonnaise
in the bored waitress
in her out of place hairs
in the slovenly pace of the midday sun;
that's where I linger, 
that’s how I roll.

I am the black book of malignant intention
the click bait of mediocre raconteurs
the tidings of a bureaucratic disaster response .

When you find me, I’ll be lazing
in the shade of a broken archipelago
cracking the code to your insignificant others email
wiping up spilt milk with your mother handkerchief,
the silk one, she gave you before you entered the world.

There will be no need for introductions,
lengthy overviews, or extraneous conversation
all of this, of course, is superfluous,
besides, it has been done on your behalf.
I want nothing more than to slip over you
like a hood, like a recollection.
slip into you like a cock at dawn,
neatly dovetailed as day and night.

From here, you can taste the infinite
the suspension of hours whittled
incessant ticks of clocks
and minor psychosis, a vague hunger
and an agitated stillness.

You spit twice.
It blows back in your face.