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.
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.
His animated eyes are bulging with anticipation:
playtime; attention; food!
His distinct smell cuddles up to my nose and wriggles inside my nostrils.
His ears perk and his charming head snaps
a little to the right.
He falls to the ground, whimpers and scrubs his skull-
he is just too much.
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.