A firm tapping at the base of your brain.
Where your skull and fleshy pink fuse to your spine.
Fastening flickers of persistent pulsing. Tap tap tap.
Electric wires, stripped of black insulation, or red
and bare to the elements of truth, reality, and concept.
A naked exposure of a closet-exhibitionist. Delivered.
The air is heavy and pregnant with moisture of green moss
like a sponge, it persists to absorb the shameful drippings of my tongue
Slick and clicking nervously; full of shame and all the trappings of.
The microscope promises the cells of an onion, square and exact
one from the next spotted with one million antmaids and men.
Insect legs crawling up and down your arms, legs, eyelashes.
Reminiscent of moments alone and inward thinking
Such strong and stonecarved fingers, chisled with a love for the pen yet
So ironically weak within their bones or veiny purple spiders.
A terrible thirst for the knife or a dirty bed to hide other dirty things
to be dug with nails as a reminder; to always go out fighting
in the ever most selfish and cowardess way. Ladies, Gentlemen.
To leave in the future unborn babes of pudging olive or pink
Suckling tiny lips, always begging for more then I would have to give.
Never enough and always too little, simply I die to not disappoint.
Loving madly on fire a face or bone structure, strong and petulant.
Even the greatest novels of Poe and Plath quiver to an end
Silent in their resignation, but adament nonetheless.
Cheeks of strangers gratefully resting on upward facing palms
wondering and waiting for the sky to open up and swallow them tongueless;
No words, merely a faithful salvation. Inevitable and sweetly lingering.
The firm tapping. A disease of the mind and its mother's first enemy.
A perennial, but come at greater frequency, with the stubborness of a weed--
planting roots where there needent be a single living thing. Time is telling.
Author notes
sleeping pills
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