Back to when your bright, tinder eyes
stimulated the syllables to seep from my lips.
the current of lust shocked my lips.
Addicted to the taste- we lock.
You untangled my hair and pulled me closer,
your other hand traced my jaw and stroked down.
Warming up, neck tilted and tickled.
I shake my head.
A nocturnal songster whistles through the air.
I cut off my own ears in hope of some silence
but the torrent of white noise, with the piercing chorus, still rattles.
I thought that the bitter shower would wash away
the trodden paths in my mind.
Scalp-scratching and scouring my skin crimson -so raw- to strip the stress.
Terror bleeding from my skull and contouring my fragile frame,
flushed through the plug-hole.
Feeling frozen, I trembled into bed.
The thin fold of skin scratched my dry eyes
and the scars on my cornea altered an ugly collage
into something much more cursed.
A faceless shadow crawled across the ceiling
to laugh in the face of anxiety.
It approaches midnight
It finds us.
A shadow- no host.
It scratches me
It hates to:
Leave; rest; sit alone
The white noise floods the silence.
I bury under the quilt, face the wall and close my eyes.
Sleep never rushes.
It never responds.
The gargoyles protect my silver crest-
the one that is tucked in a trinket box.
The piercing voices sew my mind.
And then they notice.
It was the bleeding that gave it away.
The bleeding of thoughts that seeped through the faulty key-hole.
And when it accumulated and poured,
like a stream of screams,
they stopped taunting.
Their attempt of mopping the clots off the page was more like
stabbing ink and scribbling words.
I’m more of a composer.
The words rush through my mind like: electrons in a circuit;
a glut of gore from the wound of weakness; a torrent of insanity from the beer head.
And then I have to stop.
That’s the most difficult part-
having to discipline and arrange thoughts to create art.
It takes time
and time is what you (nor I) do not have.
So let the words ooze- let them boil with thought.
Let the words dance through your veins and circulate your body.
Then throw them together, give them more clout and
etch them onto whatever is near- paper, wall, table or skin.
Let your words clog somebody’s arteries.
My mind is lubricated
with the wine of thought-
it seeps pleasure
and craves empty bottles.
The tornado of infinite joy
licks the glass
like an overzealous lover.
When the glass becomes dry
the pirates’ wife comes out to play.
She teases my lips,
numbs my throat
then contaminates my cadaver
with her black, spicy spirit.
Her whisper is a
clap of thunder
and captures me
like a grapnel
as I become squiffy
and load the gun walls.