Casus belli

It tasted yellow.

Woke up with it . Had to put it together.

Same as artificial light, that blaring first horn,

TAPS and organs now must stand up

to gravity, though the deaftone stomach resists this

verticality nestled in leaden refusal to churn over.

When focus comes on strong, this tangible sting,

bite of blink and swallow, is pointed.

And knowing the acid brewing

is not best for breakfast-as a rule-

according to the orange juice

and strong brown coffee,

I am delusional.

They rest their cases. The resting still,

they are bloodthirsty, at the ready,

palms rubbing, rabid from a distance,

the young smoking.

Look at the mess they made last night.

They are poking around for War.

It will be found. Instigators have a chronic itch.

Admixture to weak sauce with whatever 

is lying around.

And all make green, except mine, faintly

in flesh tones and tossed in peach stones.

   

A tree, like bravery, builds itself up slow

like this gathered heart, low and labored.

Rather not swallow.

The blue early bird, first notices me;

gorging on gravel and gathering sticks

to replace broken bones, he does not blink back.

I think could never forget what the birds taught me,

this was no dream,

the heart still beats itself

without a body,

And I throw up 

this empty stomach. 

Image credit By Sol Horn (4/1939) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Forsaken, forsooth

Have you seen a secret? Someone  else's-specifically?

The way they fiddle with it in their pocket-It gets stuck between their

first and second molars, like poppy seeds, or opium and needs constant stroking

or protection by its caretaker who thinks-who believes-utterly, no one else can see;

the touching devotion, the precious obsession, the random gaze, sneaky smiles, daylight        
dreams late labored nights, off-kilter emotions,

or most simply the love of its keeper-buried deeper than they think any other can see.

Indulgence even has its limits.

Honesty was never a necessity for breathing easy.

Instinct can be turned down, or diverted to other carnal needs such as

survival of the keenest wills.

All the bile was meant to make you sick of yourself.

Betrayal, often thick and yellow in-consistency corrodes from the insides-
tastes like lies.

Love smothered with these dies in a shower of saliva’s acid rain. Kiss me...

for another's wish

for another

denied all this to me in sweet secrecy.

Painting by William Dyce [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Call me Callous

I must be sick.
Nothing sounds good.
Everything tastes suspicious.
Something stinks-
and not in just one place.

And I am switching on and off
like a light, from flaming heat
to icy sleet.
I shiver at my ashen image.
All is muted in grey,
like that one fat cloud
shorting the light behind
that does not desire
to move
me, but instead
hovers in hauntology.

I must have thrown out my smile,
I haven't seen it in a while.

Denial is a thick word
that extends in all tense directions.
And when I look back,
it was there and here.

I cannot speak right.
It is not your misunderstanding
it is my bad, I prose,
I left out the important details.

All my forgotten failures
have been waiting for me
to give up,
to add them up,
to throw up
the shit in the fan
and splatter the walls
with my acidosis.

Etching insults on my skin,
wretching my brain,
I am stained with vile regret-
yet, it may be a nasty infection
of my excommunicated ego,
though -I'm still -I think
I must be sick
of myself.



Image of painting By Artist Edward Prentis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wet Dreams

I have been sleeping with the devil, I think.
Those that love me, tell me I'm sick.
I know they are right no matter how hard I try to fight,
to untangle the snarled lines that implicate
the heat of day and deep chasm of night,
He lives there.
At first I wasn't sure it was Him-
being so dark- you know.
After arousing amid a wet,
slimy, stone cold pillow,
my hair plastered to my neck-
strangling me-
two swollen and asphyxiated eyes
on a greenish white face looking at me
in the bathroom mirror,
confirms my satanic suspicions.

The furniture looks the same-set in its ways.
My leaden limbs ache- relentlessly shivering in quakes.
Did the dresser see me
dancing in my delirium-
must have been a dream,
since the coffee table
pleads the fifth, cowering
when asked about the black and blue
marks, bruises on my shins
it lies. No burning desire,
I shiver in icy aloneness,
tossing aside those awake-
turning down and still- not dreaming
while I burned, I feel-
He stares at me lovingly, and I know,
I have been sleeping with the devil.



Image by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), The Nightmare [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.