Drum Machine

In this room, I do start to feel violent
in a directionless way
like there’s no bucket to throw up in 
so you puke in your hands or swallow.
There’s only yourself to damage.
In this room,
nobody looks me in the eye.
I must not be here.
If I am not here,
then I must be a machine
almost perfect,
made perfecter in silence.
Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum.
Ergo drum.
So, I am
to the carpet, to the men
as machine as the Wurlitzer organ.
What a funny sound she makes.
Is my voice truly so sour in your bucket ears
that there is nothing good to hear in me?
I doubt, therefore I drum.