No Home of Mine

The bags are packed, I leave tomorrow morning

He tried to dissuade me, like convincing a melanoma patient

“I know its stage three, but we’ll fix you, Sir”

Part dejected, part hoping

Where’s the room for acceptance?

I say burn the body while it still is pink

Older, staler, it’ll poison you too

Then slowly, mutating into a form

You will give up on dear life and cling on to dead skin

 

These walls were beginning to choke me

Walls scream out to you sometimes,

In moments of deafening silence

Revealing stories of passion while the sheets persuade you

Into finding new allies to join forces with

And I will recruit thus

As soon as I can believe again

As soon as I can breathe again

This room never had windows, you see.

 

Mother said, “ Mend it, child. Bend if you must”

Tell her, you, I plead

 What’s not broken can’t be mended.

Going Coral

The sharp edges, the roughness, the dark and twisted meanings of what life offers, all come together as I look at what you are.

Inside His Recording Room

Red and blue, dimmed into perfection

The melody wickedly seeps into my veins

Wicked more still, his narrow, crazed eyes

Screaming out notes of every achievable pitch,

Offering familiar zones of senile-dome

Ones you want avoid, for the lack of balls

Moving in a commotion his sly fingers,

Lest the strings break free off the wood

Torso moving like the graceful arching

Of a wild cat fresh out of slumber,

And I’m left, in a corner of this trance

To hesitate, to hyper ventilate, slowly desiccate.