Backdoor Poems

by Shaina

These backdoor poems.  Backdoor
poems aren’t beautiful, I’ll tell you
that.  Id frequencies like admitting you
like it.  Didn’t say admitting you
adore it | assonance | alliteration is
for liars, mostly, unless we are lucky or very careful.  Truth in
these backdoor poems.  Dirty to
taboo, so don’t like them or
do or they’re too big | Floundering museless | it’s
teetering on freedom or
lostness.  “If I am not here, then no one is there.”  If
puzzles didn’t exist but there was one piece.  Total
irrelevance, really.  Backdoor poems inform the
omnipresence of solitude, such as if no me, then
them?  If no them, then skin?  And then if a mind
were skinless, where does gravity or
this claim establishment.  Simple solution: The Village,
that movie which could be applied to all layers.  The
easiest is this.  The most difficult is skinless mind
lost in space.   One argument is feces, the
anti-question, mortality, etc.  But that’s backdoor poems,
calling it.  You would never say you liked them.  Only
they scratch an itch or
they’re comfortable after you accept.  Darndest things.
I had said, ‘don’t make me laugh.  I’m trying to make this
tampon last.’  The others blushed.