Hallucination in a Slave Nation

I see in my friend’s face
His face is made of window
He has a face of window
I would love to close the window
He lives in a door
Inside the door, inside
The house is a switchboard
The switchboard has a lot of cigarette buds
And thousands of words dance on the wall

And the character comes out of the story
My imaginary buddy comes out of the story
Crawling on the page, walking by the margin
Peeping on each leading and kerning,
A story is only as good as how it is told
The reality is a fucked-up mess,
Then he slips out of the page
He runs out of sight
I see nobody but my master

And I see in my master’s face a bruise today
His face is an asshole
It is as real as the power of a god
The big pair of butts makes one big bruised face
In serving him, I have seen it close
He got the face of an asshole,
And his face is where his asshole should be
But the bruise is oblivious of the assholeness
Or the whole bunch of assholes around him