The voices crawl across my brain
like spiders on a thread.
Pinching nerves that spread their pain
like prophets of the dead.
They arrive in writhing masses,
their legs upturned and flicking,
trying to impale my flies
like bloody pigs upon the sticking.
The voices shout and whisper
in a cadenced drone of lies
that mingles with the buzzing
of a million writhing flies.
They build their webs to catch them
and devour wholly men,
until they find the last fly buzz,
and devour all again.
Reeling and spinning,
the whole world is oblique.
I can feel it swivel jarringly
right below my feet.
Once the voices start to speak.
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
