Ordinary Boy

Could I have a break, from your leash?
It’s wrapped like a snake around my neck;
Cracking the vertebrate, it’s ruined the voice box
Making me a mute, it seems, or
Hold another pillow over my face, if you like?
And I’ll just lie there, smile, and agree to stay down.
Turning blue again.
The veins on my forehead
Are popping like fireworks.

Is that my backbone, sprawled on the floor?
Awkward like a wingless bird.
Spineless boy - I don’t know you.
Put down your glass of Jack,
He doesn’t have the answers either -
But you try and try, every barbiturate laced night
To find him and
The courage to exhale.

Completely inverted now;
Like fish bubbles they spill out; the yes, yes, yes’.
Puppet strings still sewn haggard 
Into the shoulder blades.
I’ll take blunt knives and cut them loose, or
Grate away at the bone
And make marrow mints.
Either way, I won’t be living for you.

loradora:

i like to eat cereal.

2 bowls at the very most.

3 i’m under the table.

4 i’m under the host.

crystalgypsy:

Is it WEIRD I like reading about serial killers? I find it scary but fascinating.

But you, my doctor, my enthusiast,
were better than Christ;
you promised me another world
to tell me who
I was.

Seagull song, as I lay in bed

With moist feet and palms. And the

Sun screams through the tissue paper netting, which is

Punctured with flowers.

And I’m ready

To face the men and their wives, and the kids

Who know nothing about life.

Walking with two left feet,

Have I forgotten how to walk?

But I’ve made it to the high-street,

With its Lego building and pigeons;

A swarm of pigeons like bees, under-foot.

It’s scorching

Like the insides of a cake

Browned and steaming from an oven.

And the air is steaming away too and

Leaves me with its skinny carcass remains;

So that’s why I hate the sun.

Acht. Shht.
Grinding teeth on sandpaper heaps,
The little white specks corrupt the air
Like whiskers of dust;
Dead skin for a dead man like me.

Old shoe, old you.
In the same room, with a parker pen and a muse
And specious grin, like a madman who
Will push and tug but never get through
The translucent veil made of moth wings and grease.

Paper man, who drinks ashes and ink
Built of flesh and bone, held together with rubber bands;
He keeps coming back for the girl in the boat,
Who wears a tear to the neck:
Which leaks with tar or gasoline.

He’ll bite and grip, with canine stubs
And pray she’ll never retreat or
Wave a white flag in the homebuilt cage,
Which locks up the distance,
Like a mocking clock.