Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or

prospect,

is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

Advertisements

Afterwards

             After the last song, we started down a dark street. There was a sound like the shock of a dropped eight-string, and it clouded our territory with distressed and anxious gnats, burrowing into our ears with a visceral scratching, the kind of scratching that may prompt one to beat himself for no reason other than to clear its echoes. A quick, sharp wail and an interrupted gasp followed the shock. Silk woven bags of sand spun and met their surroundings with the force of riot pellets against hard metal. But this was around the corner in an alley that always smelled of blood and burning heroin. That wasn’t our alley, ours was a block north. I felt the tingle in the back of my head again. The spiders were stepping ever so slowly up and down the inside of my skull, their sharp weaving feet tapping back and forth. I would soon breathe it again. Smell it, taste it, know it. The drip like old vitamins mother fed me twenty years ago. My primal instincts would best me soon, forcing me to crawl into my shadow beneath the grid once again.

-untitled- (poem)

Layers of skin are peeling away…
but the new skin just looks all the same.

In the dark, I watch him tie…
the sheet from which my body will die.

Tangled in black strands of thick cloth…
I try to imagine what’s gained and what’s lost.

This demon of mine, what he wants, I don’t know…
he thinks I can only be happy alone.

Repeating again, that new skin is the same…
I question if happiness is truly in vein.

A constant struggle for attention, I cry…
protected by dark, so cleverly disguised.

My heart, still beating, the only thing I despise.