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glen-brunsonPoems
there is a straightjacket noose man                    gauzed inside my chest. breathing with inside fever and moving around the edges with a mumble and a shuffle he crowds the walls                       with blue light. the tapes fuzz and hiss when his hands raise up to the glass            the security operator is crying             into his wrinkled shirt collar and the wind whips itself to a frenzy, the tapes fuzz and hiss when his mouth opens up and crawls a gasp straight to the shout the shout rises like sharp pockets of steam             and the director is shaking so hard             the pens on his desk chorus like a thin drum choir, the desk is too hot to touch, the noose man slips       to strands then to particle            then to simple sugars and                                     energy like light right through the floor and the ceiling                                      and we are live so live. the glass once slow flowing moves faster and sand is everywhere and his eyes snap and chip into the locks and the tape.            he rages in the deep the            lightbulb left, in the dark desert,                                             the red dust. he lights like sparks and rises again        until my every muscle trembles and the mothers chatter and my teeth chatter and the director shakes and the neurons shake and operate                                   like telegraphs. (outside, I am a clenched fist. a tired pillow, the shadow under an open hand and a closed eye.) inside there is a crack and a moment of confusion so brief as the smoke clears and the neck has broken on the noose man, cut open by the speed of        his own sharp snaps.
0
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Mr.Mania
there is a straightjacket noose man                    gauzed inside my chest. breathing with inside fever and moving around the edges with a mumble and a shuffle he crowds the walls                       with blue light. the tapes fuzz and hiss when his hands raise up to the glass            the security operator is crying             into his wrinkled shirt collar and the wind whips itself to a frenzy, the tapes fuzz and hiss when his mouth opens up and crawls a gasp straight to the shout the shout rises like sharp pockets of steam             and the director is shaking so hard             the pens on his desk chorus like a thin drum choir, the desk is too hot to touch, the noose man slips       to strands then to particle            then to simple sugars and                                     energy like light right through the floor and the ceiling                                      and we are live so live. the glass once slow flowing moves faster and sand is everywhere and his eyes snap and chip into the locks and the tape.            he rages in the deep the            lightbulb left, in the dark desert,                                             the red dust. he lights like sparks and rises again        until my every muscle trembles and the mothers chatter and my teeth chatter and the director shakes and the neurons shake and operate                                   like telegraphs. (outside, I am a clenched fist. a tired pillow, the shadow under an open hand and a closed eye.) inside there is a crack and a moment of confusion so brief as the smoke clears and the neck has broken on the noose man, cut open by the speed of        his own sharp snaps.
glen-brunson
Written by
glen-brunson
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
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