Tell Them: Mice

In the aftermath of the window,

chilled by the persecution of the wind,

closed-in on by a God who's lost everything and forgotten all,

tightly-occupied by one of those control lab rats,

crumpled by smiles unseen,

clobbered by the Biblical,

betweened by a tweener,

trapped between the terrifying and the just plain empty,

blinded from death by air traffic controllers,

staggered by brutal and infinite messages,

despised by Hunger's foot,

cordoned off with difficult news,

passed over by withered passers-by,

beaten up by Mark Twain,

choke-holded by innocence,

discerned to be in the dell,

truncated by soccer players,

warmed-over by hamming-it-up,

trounced on by a busted heart,

flourished by a last ounce of flourish,

done in by the Dalai Lama,

diked by draconian architecture,

troubled and exalted by multi-hop attempts,

sub-humanned by robotic scum,

modeled by eyebrows,

ruined by driving 55,

torn by negation and Tender Vittles,

mouthed by the only seahorse in captivity,

towned by a country mouse,

blasted by CIA pre-war intelligence on Iraq,

slaughtered by the blue-eyed universe,

crushed by a half-ounce of surrealism,

mediated by chasm horror hideouts,

reflected and bounced by rental agreements,

dethroned by the gentle, aluminum rain,

bred by Heaven's Gate hooligans,

imprisoned by internal reflection,

renewed by ropes bearing ash and debris,

destroyed by heroic statues,

envied by how pure a thing whining is,

produced by rages of fog and rodent's teeth,

trifled with by swarms of spleens,

prepared like a picture of a plea,

pained by a slain happy face,

reduced to polishing couches,

repeated by polishing couches,

reamed by maze-ish girls,

burned by paper critics,

wakened by the white in the air,

generated by a woman who has left you,

desired by men in their graves,

killed by the fence and a mile of misfortune,

submerged by the assumption of fragrance,

glanced at by the completely detached,

assumed to be an elastic automaton,

retarded by broken glass pipe cleaners,

remembered as a Papa Smurf wannabe,

plucked from a vast sleep,

fabled to be on simmer,

sucked into what the rest obey,

clawed and handled by the sun-struck parchment,

kidded for being on a missing persons flyer,

picked to be among the living jaded,

shrunken by the notion that there is a god,

closed-in by the choice,

picked apart like a prize-fighter,

tracked by birds,

torn apart by a crinkly dress,

delivered with sunspots,

reminded of negation by despair,

mustard on my t-shirt,

I look up.