there forms a storm in the corner
of some cryptic galaxy.
On tilting splintered shelves are
jars of contagion
packed with impending insanity.
Artaud or Van Gogh.
Art is merely an postscript.
This six foot frame contains madness,
latent lunacy cranked low
and coiled tightly, exchanging
love making for screwing,
petting flesh for chewing,
rapacious appetite for
impropriety.
Don’t look so shocked, the pupa of
psychosis resides within you…too
and every other sane citizen you
meet.
Morphing Mephistopheles,
butterfly with the stinger of a wasp
and the dissecting mandible of a mantis,
crimson eyes and vulgar intentions--
one good blow might just crack the
chrysalis wide open, spilling social
derision from the reeking shroud.
Immune? I think not.
There are those days you feel it emerging.
I do.
Wings scuffing the concrete webbing,
kicking at night covers,
yanking me from my placid dreams,
that image scratching
against the fragile shell of my skull.
No, that t is not Athena rising,
it is hatred for caring about those in pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment