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Absinthe & Thyme
Rhetoricionary. Trooth. Here’s another: POUNT. Simply dig to the groove of it. Illogical process. Eat back. Spill burgundy. Staring into the black because he finds things there. He writes it all down, but no one’s looking. Clickity-clack! away, but no one cares. And when no one understands, no one to talk to. Underneath the up above it’s in his spiral down you see.
Headache pounding…no, no…not again, but yes it is – and he knew it would, the nightmares promised they’d never go away. Want to curse, but all tongue-tied. Here. The answer is there. Inside the where it’s hard to stomach. Hungry for the starve again. The bloated disbelief and the what to do in front of him; with a coin on the tongue, he wants cucumber eyes.
Alert the alter to all pages. Whatever he’s irritating is not what they spill. Microns of prattle and cycle afoot. Non-stop clatter combing his skull. Halfway not there. Erase and deflate, delete and elate. Berate and escape. Can’t eat until the laughter’s gone, he mumble-grumbles – and there goes a yawn. Unable to focus, his chew is spent. That’s what he bought for her – nine of them, but she lets her fears and worries become real, breakable things…
…like walking money.
Posted by Invisibleye in: Experiences, Poetry 
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7 July, 2010 