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Paranoia Never Retires When You’re Blind

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.

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Waiting for the white

The lilies that appeared

at my door

prematurely

didn’t wake

until I stopped

watching.

As I turned

my back,

they looked out of the rain-trodden window

and waited for my eager eyes:

to return; to massage the cold pane.

I’m waiting.

I must

until the lilies whisper-

when the gentle whisper turns into a breeze.

I’ll turn around and bathe in the aroma

of the soft, pure petals.

The nectar-filled, cordovan bananas balance from the arm and

I’m thinking of how the nectar will

stick to my palms like syrup,

how it will stroke every wrinkle of my hand.

I want to create a collage with my ox-blood stains.

lily

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The journey to Davy Jones’ Locker

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.

Avast!

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