Another dust storm stirs,
these splintered gray walls
worn down to dead wires
Another hit of cheap novacaine
to pacify the filthy child that
climbs my spine and claws my mind
because the cavern below
Is too cold,
the night light died,
and there's no soft places
left to rest
"I know, I know," I say,
recycling the stock phrases
I inherited
As if they were as good
As any drink of water
warm hug
or rescue from a wet bed
YOU ARE READING
Grayspace
PoetryThis project is the author's exercise of methods using automatism as either the finished product or the basis for stories and poems. Nonsense, jarring images, and peculiar journeys woven from the stuff of dreams await. You might laugh. You might cr...
