Just hitting da keys without using
my brain, letting the letters be,
as it were, tumble to type.
What you see is what I am getting out
here, and I am not engaging one single
brain cell this time.

Lobotomise the skies! Though I
know of no atmospheric cerebral matter
so what that cry is entailing is
known only to the fingers. They dance,
patter and pitter over plastic
squares.

A mind of their own? No. A commandeer
of commanding cuticle, a strained of
struggling skin, this meat frame and
bone skeleton has words inside that
vie for escape, sweet freedom, will
they reach the conveyor before I
wrest back control?