It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia

In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky

The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia

The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls

A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air

Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes

Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs

From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside

Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw

Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows

Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God

Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.

Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe

Like so many humans do