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The Cauldron

I fell in love, as one falls into a cauldron of brisket and bones.

Fighting the fall left me impaired with three stitches on each breast.
Only the psychopaths in dystopian fine art seem to understand me, as
Real people are as fake as Gucci glass cases in Chinatown,
Given that they are undeniably in denial and deny denying.
It's that sort of thinking that puts doctors in chicken coops, you know.
Veering away from this deceptive normality is the best I can do,
Even though real people feast on the vulnerability of my complexities.

Yes, the list can stretch long enough for St. Nicholas to read
Of all the complexities of this tragically abnormal soul of mine,
Unless I fall in love with another maniac in that boiling cauldron, of course.
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