The floor boards
quake,
flapping like gulls -
flying backwards in
in a strong wind >
as the temperature drops
an aperature of delusion
rots the hearts
between floors.
The dry wall molds,
gangrenous spots on the legs
of the lamp tables
illuminating their own disease.
Weeping in whispers,
cadenced and incorporeal
lifting the breeze and dropping it from weak arms.
‘SSSHHHHHH’
In a nervous cold sweat
the gripped bat flaps
frantically in a panic
biting me.
The dirty white salt stains
spread ceaselessly across the floor,
as the ghost-vapor breath
blossoms and decays,
dissapears into the night.
Your face appears in the static
of the tv:
Eyes following me,
silent lips licked
under a black lace veil.
I’m not turned on,
you’re not plugged in.
Sit myself in an arm chair
and gaze into your dead eyes.
Like we never did in life.
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.
