ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
shadow work
the harm and deep
hunger
demanded much
louder
and every last
second
rang with
alarm
as clocks went off
between the
ears.
this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
i droop from
a branch
while my toes
stretch for
land,
not quite of the
sky or earth
but stranded in
between.
i hear rubber gripping
fresh rainfall
and watch clouds circle
like seagulls
while neighbors vs. neighbors
rekindle each
other..
i smell stale incense
as the hours
trip on
by.
pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,
thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,
anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires..
shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.
it’s friendships like
keepsakes
stashed in boxes
in drawers
that i should
visit more.
the threat of pests
in my place
of peace
chafes the skin and
all beneath
and scratching
offers no
relief.
a feast upon the
wound
to cleanse what
won’t be
cured,
embracing
the discolour
of bruising under
teeth.
time sits
thick
like the smell
of fish
in the back of
my throat
on a broken down
vacation
boat
aimed at open
sea.
hands in the garden 
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