Monday
Been away for a while. Gotta take a break now and then. This is an older poem that I wrote for a "challenge" some years ago. maybe the original was written 2o1o-11 or so. To tell the truth, I don't remember the challenge or what it was about. Reworked this one several times, and I feel as if it would make a nice title poem for my book . . . if I'm ever published. The ANIMATION work would the cover.
Murder Me
unintelligible curses. Soft, whimpering . . .
tiny human things . . . slowly dying.
The whisper room, the silent room . . .
Darkness bangs the door shut, the cold, grey floor
nibbles at your ears ‘til all goes . . . deaf.
along the hairline . . . opening the inside
of the skull . . . mind blisters, curdles, cringes . . .
a battery of drilling sounds gnaw at my brain.
his scribble rips across the page, peels away
the festered layers of scab protecting my wound . . .
protecting me . . . from him.
He craves a deeper view of the deformities.
movement . . . the gel applied to the temples,
the hard, rubber mass shoved in my mouth.
They murder me . . . for sure this time. They—
—rrw o6-o9-12 (rewrites o9-21-13)
Been away for a while. Gotta take a break now and then. This is an older poem that I wrote for a "challenge" some years ago. maybe the original was written 2o1o-11 or so. To tell the truth, I don't remember the challenge or what it was about. Reworked this one several times, and I feel as if it would make a nice title poem for my book . . . if I'm ever published. The ANIMATION work would the cover.
Murder Me
I can hear beyond the walls the vacant wail
of children . . . muffled screams, lips mumbling unintelligible curses. Soft, whimpering . . .
tiny human things . . . slowly dying.
Nowhere to hide . . . out there . . . inside here
where the white monsters, the badger-men drag you. The whisper room, the silent room . . .
Darkness bangs the door shut, the cold, grey floor
nibbles at your ears ‘til all goes . . . deaf.
They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . they murder me . . .
Thin, clean scalpels slicing wafer thick slits along the hairline . . . opening the inside
of the skull . . . mind blisters, curdles, cringes . . .
a battery of drilling sounds gnaw at my brain.
The smell of cigarettes burning in an ashtray
near the Duster’s chair. He writes upon a yellow pad, his scribble rips across the page, peels away
the festered layers of scab protecting my wound . . .
protecting me . . . from him.
He craves a deeper view of the deformities.
They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . They murder me
with comfortable wool-lined straps . . . restrain mymovement . . . the gel applied to the temples,
the hard, rubber mass shoved in my mouth.
I cannot breathe, I can’t . . . they lash
my head within a stainless-steel band . . .They murder me . . . for sure this time. They—
—rrw o6-o9-12 (rewrites o9-21-13)
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