One Shell

Lopsided? You bet. My whole vision is a cave- in. Hills and skulls, bopped down, shovel found: loose cavern fall-down to the exchange of landscapes:

form substituting itself for firmer structures: the convex.

In the dark, in every room, the bald zombie stands in the corner in my mind. His teeth chatter and there’s a lose bit of fleshy cheek swinging back and forth like a ripped pocket, a slap-slap I hear in the dark, every dark, in every room.

So when I look out the window at the new grown sinkhole my life’s become, I see a hundred hands reach up as though clawing for my paycheck.

It’s the earnestness, the pure painful need that makes a zombie look childlike.
The choice is:
zombie sinkhole or Dada’s own collapsing dome.