The complex

A series of negative thoughts she hangs onto. One is let go of and replaced by another: people cluttered self-esteem; a christian chain expecting admiration; a diabolical need linked to the outside world intrinsically operating with the inner day of a cockroach nation.

The roach in one crevice creating the next and the next; they cannot be neutralized; it is the same thought pattern masked.

A high pitch bile oozes in and out of her ears starting to build and live under her skin while cleaning excrement the complex is weaving. Be it a worry, an errand, or an itch. It is a calcified reminder prevailing; a leaf that drops to remind her they are only a vessel simulating the psychosomatic energy trapped in the unit.

Status quo’s and tables repeating beliefs through the archives casting back meetings with others that always seem to involve explanation. Everywhere she goes there is some type of unwelcome ootheca within.

As she moves to the motion of fall, she lets loose commemorating the progress she has made without a fly swat or dalliance to subdue the wasp.

There is a constellation shifting, working out the source, syncopating, tracking tissue, compelling the cyst to also manifest in another and another. For when the cockroaches continue to crawl on the invisible line, we call hers, his and mine it breeds; cycling like a wheel turning in direct reproach of ages involved in opposition…I am right and you are wrong.

Perfection only subsists within the aria.

Where there is one there are thousands more.

I feel the roach around the corner now, I sense it.

A crunch and ooze. This is where they come to die.

 

 

By Adrian Voss