They take it in turns
multiplying like germs,
ideas wreaking havoc between
my two ears.

If there be a vaccination to relieve
this situation,
let me know.

Ideas grow
and like dynamite they blow
the world apart.

But
between these two big ears is
another world of hope that's
filled with fears and the germs
accumulate, they never want to
cooperate
leaving me in such a state that
all I want to do
is sleep.

Right sat not felling himself
sitting in his paresthesia
Left came in
and asked what up right man
Right said, I think right, so here I am
But not feeling to good myself
Left with a smile on his face
well right today I am good
and with that left, stage right
at  That RIGHT fell on his back
then die'd.

~
black tie, bare feet,
a walk through dandelions,
following the scent of wine
and mirthful promise

phosphenes and paresthesia
—slow dazzle motif;
the bluebird of happiness
echoes in a shallow bay;
pieces of places to claim as theirs:
moth wings, flower petals,
and blades of grass

seduced by eventide,
unhurried mouth(s), lips searching
and soft, all words seem to have
a few extra vowels;
sudden ubiquity
to collisions and slippages,
cultivating suggestive shapes
from aleatory arrays
of objects and forms

in the surf they mingle and link,
emancipating adrenaline;
they love like they were
water for life
~

It is not a mirage. This;
it is vital they share the same blue
veins under their pale veil. But they breathe different
airs.             To live, is to learn how
to rejoice with paresthesia
causing liquor down your throat
and be in the stupor without feeling
stupid.
Stupors feel better
lucid
and this, this all feels better in sleep.

More and more
I constantly want to be a ******* blind and blissful, ignorant, idiot.

No longer aware of every little prickling emotion that is
right underneath my skin.

I want to be numb and have my soul fall asleep
like my limbs
instead of the steady intensifying pain
of it gradually waking up instead.

Just need a way to cut off it's circulation.

when sitting at your desk
you experience hypesthesia
from being to statuesque
it's called paresthesia

don't want to swear
by yelling out bollix
take it out with blare
or a string called grawlix

do you have that tickling
feeling on your niddick
don't know that christening
it's your nape to be specific

going into winter sun
that soft warm felicity
experienced by everyone
that is called apricity

He throws a shot to clear his head
Full of clear liquid quickly fed
Down his throat to process the process-less
It burns his belly like fire flames
Churning up his spine and through his veins.
It lingers like paresthesia with purpose,
To some a gift but, to the frequent goer,
They say it curses.

He takes two more down,
Each time the glass makes an empty sound
As it hits the tabletop, his vision drops,
The blurs turn words slurred
Until it's loud talking but nothing heard.
Until it's no thoughts, nothing heard.
That's what he's searching.

About eight deep, he calls it a night.
His mind turned off all the lights.
Staggering to bed in drunken bliss,
No pain from a life path missed,
Nothing gained and nothing wished,
That's his last slur barely said
As he crashes into bed.