dear
me,
mr
brown — oh
shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up. you are
so full of noise.
of course we are
coming back
around to you as subject.
god. shut up.
why it’s always about you
and your loud, pale reaction
is a mystery. why is it so rarely
a dark red action,
full of your own blood
and justified ire? why is it so
rarely original,
rarely worth our time,
rarely worth
anyone’s ears or
eyes —
shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up.
dear me
mr brown — enough
of your same old
same old same old empty.
shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up.
oh, sorry. not entirely empty.
inside you is a key to
a locked box and inside
that locked box
is a switch
that turns you off
(although you are
apparently more turned on by
such yapping than
by silence so all this
is likely futile) but find that
and shut up shut up shut up
shut up —
for yourself if not
for us — dear me
mr brown. dear me
you must get so tired in there.
so tired having to speak
all the time even in your
sleep — must be — how could
any of this
have been done
by a conscious mind?
tell that yapper within
to shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up.
dear me mr brown —
shhhhhhhh.
that’s enough.
enough. trust
that it can’t hurt and
how has
the yapping
ever helped?
shhhh.
shhut.
shut.
shut up.
there is a place of
silence where you
could be better served.
shhh. enough.
enough.
