In his own soft cocoon
of ever-coagulating, isolated
delirium, yodeling in the
company of himself alone,
a skull of mean bruised meat tarnishes.

Your thistle bush affections,
Vibrant feathers for the bait.
Carried by my sock,
And buried miles away.

I pull out words
As if they were
Teeth

Exposing the gummy center
And tarred lies
Beneath

The extraction leaves some
Ragged
Others
Broken

Empty socket waiting to be
Filled
Its other half
Stolen

Can lethargic scribbles
On a porcelain
Sheet
Lift this leaden heart
To dance to a swifter
Beat?

Maybe tomorrow,
But not Today.

So don't focus on results
Instead train yourself to
Say:

**** these thoughts,
I'll rest this weary
Head

Inspiration may be
Waiting
Sound asleep in my
Bed

I wish I could wake up
In a display case

No wood but my
Limbs
Nothing wet but my
Paint
Flawless
Smooth Razor-******

No searching
For caverns
To plunder
No caves to protect
From thieves
Gone asunder

I wish my canvas was blank
Androgynous beauty
A creation of
Choice

But I think I used to have a voice

Characters danced in my esophagus
And played my cords
Like a
Cello

They shouted on a
Page
And longed for the
Stage

But struggled against
My front
Teeth

After years of neglect,
Too cruel to forget
And too torturous again
To repeat

They forwent their "adieus"
But muttered "**** yous"
As they went to turn tricks
Down the street

I learned to listen
By playing your
Words
On repeat

By lapping the taste
That your anger
Morphs into when
Under a sheet

Tonight, tonight,
This rumble won't
Take place in
The street

Rocket in your pocket,
Shark boy, little Jet,
Do you feel pretty?
Or have I not relieved
You yet?

Now something's coming,
Checkmate, game and set,
But maybe you'll indulge me
With one last cigarette?

Boy, Boy,
Crazy with regret,
Let's sing a song to conjure
The evening that we met

How suddenly my name
Became a sweet refrain
That you could not
Forget

It's only you,
Everything I'll ever be,
Don't matter if you're tired,
Come refresh yourself in
Me

I've felt my fingers
withered to the core.
Wet chalk on a broken blackboard;
my words powdery prints
yearning for
a string of thoughts
that doesn't screech at night,
or that age old rhyme
that would surely make
the worst of my burdens
light.

Yet words that held no meaning,
leave me empty once transposed
from their coddled womb of inspiration,
to confined sentences in rows.

A thousand locusts inciting
itching urges
to scratch my mind across
a page,
but try as hard as I may
my rhymes betray
my age.
No wisdom pours
from out my lips, nor
knowledge
that is deep.
For all I ever held
with any depth,
I've dwindled in
my sleep.

Listen:
Despite my clingy nature,
and as unlikely as it seems,
I swear to You,
those **** locusts
ate my dreams.