I suppose I should have caught warning,
the banshees singing to me should have
been enough. They knew you better than
I it would appear, which disgusts me it
took three years to reach my ears,
only taken in like the slow drip of
morphine. Or
maybe it was more like the shrieks of
helpless swine herded into the pig plant,
the way the tires tongued the pavement.
The way their tongues persuaded you.
The trail of saliva shadows your past;
ebony brushstrokes, but
not quiet charcoal. Like the pint I had
forced down my throat a week prior. Lying
in the hospital bed warmed by the hollow
embrace of death, or whiskey, or both. It
wriggled through my esophagus,
escaping the ensnaring confines
of the cocoon. Ribbed with flesh,
the ceiling, walls, and floor. Encroach.
Displacing my weakened stomach, from toe
to toe, across the crevice ridden glacier
most would call a spine. I'm jarred awake
to experience the black sludge again. Before I can
**** I'm in another white room. I should
have known something was wrong,
the impact of the hit obliterated any sense
of structure. I saw a glimpse of my reflection,
passing across three dimensions. Only the hole
outlined from your cigarette reminds me
you were ever there. We were
a great catastrophe. As a confidant voice
disrupts, "Is that everything?" The blue pen
dwindling in hand.
"I suppose. I won't fall for another pig in a poke."
The hour ends, and so does our session.