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I crash against the bars of my cage
and bleeding eyes lay looking up
from Godawful puce linoleum;
spittle foaming chapped split lip,
frigid ex-wives railing maniacally
and melting pocket watches moldering
in rusting fields of winter wheat
as icicle stilettos impale heart,
doodle-bug writhing futilely,
kickles it’s last breath with wing-burr
and pointed-nosed pogo stick men
glare with glazed opal fish looks
leaping tarmac chancres and acne scars
to seek me out - have their way;
but I run and run in King-nightmare slow motion,
while monsters encroach easily,
stop, lift the blanket to see what’s lurking
to smile up with evil apathy
as on and on the dreamscape reels -
soaring uncontrolled black ice skids
car careens against abutments and rolls
three-sixtying - fear peaking!
It’s a wrap;
six feet is colder than I thought.
Six-six-six on the UPC Code.
There’s no cage, bloody orbs, ex-wives
pogo guys, oozing Elgins,
but probably there are…
and lotsa frigging monsters too…
here, where you don’t wake
with your heart in your throat
scared shitless
but alive.
Here,
where you don’t wake…
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