There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
My eyelids are glued shut. This can’t be right,
It’s not like I had much to drink last night.
Just a glass or two of much needed blood,
A sip to stop the ever-growing flood
Of bills and work and more bills and more work.
Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.
The soft bed digs gravestones into my back;
A dull fire, a gentle kick, a boneless crack.
An itch starts on my side and crawls down low.
My fingers claw where my shoulder can’t go.
Left and right and left.
Stop.
The pain again.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
There’s a monster in the mirror.
Canyons of worry crease a trapped youth
Too tired to care
About the red-eyed, bearded, fat demon
Caught in the glaring stare.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Spits of blood and white ocean spray
Strike the porcelain, scrubbed away
By the force of released denial;
A genie leaving a white plastic bottle.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Tingly.
There’s a lie in my mouth.
A denial of advancing age,
A bulwark to encroaching disease
Set against rotten cores.
There’s a lie in my mouth.
I try not to care.
The waterfall washes away the ache
In a cascade of warmth. The lake
At my feet fills with white foamy hills
Surrounding a naked giant’s ankles.
For a brief time I forget about
The bills and work and work and bills.
My clothes are tinged with sadness,
Their misbegotten brothers don’t dress
With them anymore; so set in their way
They can’t see their youthful crimes today.
I try not to care.
My chain smiles at my dress,
Approval sits smug on her face
As I pass the test.
I try not to care.
Boxes tied in bandages for a wounded ego
Are passed piecemeal for a so-so
Attempt at gratitude.
I don’t care.
Where’s the gun?
I retreat to work, laden with gifts unwanted
That make more bills more work
And drift through the day.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.
Thirty-five.
Happy birthday, you’re alive.
A filled cake I don’t like.
Presents for my dad.
My son bought me my dad’s socks.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
My eyelids are glued shut. This can’t be right,
It’s not like I had much to drink last night.
Just a glass or two of much needed blood,
A sip to stop the ever-growing flood
Of bills and work and more bills and more work.
Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.
The soft bed digs gravestones into my back;
A dull fire, a gentle kick, a boneless crack.
An itch starts on my side and crawls down low.
My fingers claw where my shoulder can’t go.
Left and right and left.
Stop.
The pain again.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
There’s a monster in the mirror.
Canyons of worry crease a trapped youth
Too tired to care
About the red-eyed, bearded, fat demon
Caught in the glaring stare.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Spits of blood and white ocean spray
Strike the porcelain, scrubbed away
By the force of released denial;
A genie leaving a white plastic bottle.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Tingly.
There’s a lie in my mouth.
A denial of advancing age,
A bulwark to encroaching disease
Set against rotten cores.
There’s a lie in my mouth.
I try not to care.
The waterfall washes away the ache
In a cascade of warmth. The lake
At my feet fills with white foamy hills
Surrounding a naked giant’s ankles.
For a brief time I forget about
The bills and work and work and bills.
My clothes are tinged with sadness,
Their misbegotten brothers don’t dress
With them anymore; so set in their way
They can’t see their youthful crimes today.
I try not to care.
My chain smiles at my dress,
Approval sits smug on her face
As I pass the test.
I try not to care.
Boxes tied in bandages for a wounded ego
Are passed piecemeal for a so-so
Attempt at gratitude.
I don’t care.
Where’s the gun?
I retreat to work, laden with gifts unwanted
That make more bills more work
And drift through the day.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.
Thirty-five.
Happy birthday, you’re alive.
A filled cake I don’t like.
Presents for my dad.
My son bought me my dad’s socks.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth.
