Splitting the neurones expelling black ink
throughout barely legible words is the pain
that defines and creates, a dark pain of echoes
and fights. A history unravelling of minds within
minds darkly scanning the orbits of mine from behind.
Little white pills loaded into Cruisers guns do nothing
but punctuate the gloom with aspiring floweys. it’s nothing
to sleep four hours and wake up the same. It’s nothing to fear
going outside lest the animus in your eyes gives you away as a mad lady.
or gentleman who has been skewered upon the barbeque of asparagus brain.
Pain bolts crewing up and down for hours tightening and loosening their grip
hugger-mugger style inside my cranium space. Everything else in the room cannot be excused, it too is included by virtue of merely being there, of having the right to exist except for far off distant lakes
lit by moonlight, where at the end of a jetty lies a picnic and a glass of vintage wine
for one. Back in the room falling through layers of reality like acid moon until you hit the
bottom with a bang and suddenly there is no more pretending. Everything you do is on the
table and as plain as your warped mind can see that amongst the infinity of done things one
one stands out guilty!
You cannot aver to your pain, you cannot avert your eyes from the image doing so makes you weak and culpable. So you stare wildly at the cupcake you ate and as they read off the calories in an echoing loud monotone one at a time where each sound blow chisels a hole deeper into your brain creating a hole that expelling blood and bits of brain will show the world that you are insane, insane, insane. you will pay. You will pay. It has been going on for days , weeks you can see the days behind you like a comet’s tail unwind and now you are at the Feu de Glace. The Ice Fire heart of the comet travelling independently through space-time with memories of your crimes in a tail that will never expire or leave you. You sink to the floor hoping to weep but the pain doesn’t leave you and will not allow sleep to take hold of you To hush: you wish to be caressed and soothed by the inky blackness, swirls and dreams of your habit. your habit. Now it takes its place on the table of shame and despite the rightness of the pleas of temporary insanity you sit there like a child and let it all wash over you.
Is this all a dream? In my headaches it’s real. Please replace the seal. Now it’s time for a meal. That’s a good deal. Now it’s gone. Has it gone? Really?