there’s some kind of cash, ka-ching, moment
when all the dripping just seems to coalesce into some deformed monstrosity
or, maybe, it’s just the mush of grease and bacon bits into one hideous trash-compacted thing
so far, there’s no end to the rain or the vision of darkness at the end of the staircase
what cold carcase this?
i’m felling those cold fingers, toes
tossing them on the gravesite
hoarding that warmth that in the corpse remains
feel that howl building deep within the heartcase
or maybe some faltering, bumbling will collapse it
some deep flaw that stops and cools the rage,
the rage that bursts and overfills those petty, insignificant minutiae–
all set to build a blocking wall
some days, when that dinner bell rings,
i’m sore. coughing out the uninspired blocks of words.
the damage that was done, was done so long ago
the cause has faded into echo, poor damsel cry
though the scar pulls red and sear
how to name that gloomy cloud of rust?
how to bootstrap out of this janus-moon’d despair?
even the arrogant milkman would rather turn about
than face down that swarming ghost of mind
watch the clockwork jumbles, the deformed
children of my mind, who try to dance and whirl
with stars shining out their eyes
and moons clattering in their toes–
those half-finished ones, that squeak and whine
feel the battery power slide down
until it’s only a workshop of brokendown toys
it’s true, these January-cloaked days, have got me
or rather, i’ve lashed myself too many cares
pulled along by those mammon chargers
as the nails come out my hands
(but wait!–those hands that rest on grave dust?
poor, sad, metaphorical confusion…)
racing along and snapping, a tattered pennant
flying high or catching in the spiny tops of branches,
my wily tub of hair