games are fun!

directing selves in ranks
attuned to skin,
real shells encased by no
                      thing

our
bones
are
wrapped
too
tightly

augmentations.
only sin if we forget despair,
our births dwell only
on destination.
not the trips, not
                               what we're holding

empty bottles (of what?)
strewn, by no purpose:
                 the less stuff on the table, the better

how are we moving? what sends those signals to our thoughts?
if we decide, we decide, right?              right?
and, so, what is left, then?

our backs are burned, stripped and skinned and burned and
only leftovers are reheated.
remains remain, and tricks can still be played

who's the player, this time?

one, two