I, Outsider (first draft, uncompleted)

i have no dreams, but find myself suddenly
in the middle of the action in some warped
counter-reality of our sharply accentuated
pedestrian world, where logic follows
the school of escher, sequences climb up
and tumble down like staircases without
landings, the linear perspective is mellowed
away, colours and light are sunken in dank
latrinary industrial ooze that looks like old
sepia photography drenched in an icy slate
grey tincture that creates a permanent dusk.

i register no words, only their shadow etched in
obfuscated ink or pixels. I listen to voices which
are not interesting by themselves or what they
deem categorically of vital importance, but relinquishing
my attention, the concatenation of rhythm, tone and
amplitude sounds like the murmur of the sea, the rushing
of my blood deeply trenched in my body.

i walk in desolation, because everything around me
has this bitter-sweet melancholy that cowls over the furrows
and potholes of misery ravaging lofty expectations and
bloated rut running on high heels; the sickening smell
of angel lust pervades the air - how can anyone walk
so uptight and self-assured down the aisle of their
church of vices?

thrown into the here and now,
i have no bearings in this conundrum.
i am an outsider.