Analogous, impostured
wretch of a man.
Mirrors aplenty and yet
I persist in showering
affections so readily
laced with spikes.
Howdo, howdo. The
mitral flak broncastingly
echos. The fetid compliancy
of its will, shocks me to
silence.
'Turn off the tap!' I guffawed.
Mind, choked-full with ego,
hitting a morbid high of
satisfaction.
'Does the lung resemble
a gill?' my sardonic voice
rings out. 'Am I to brandish
the heart, while I nail these
hands to the floorboards?'
Laughter resounds and in a
mere moment, I am reduced
to the little man that I have
always been.
Wringing hands, bristling beard.
I agitate to the doom, doom
that pounds in my head. Streaky
lined blots, shallow grave moths,
anaphoric dictums, metaphoric
allegoric values - fuck them all!
Standing for the sale of imposed
morality, I rationalize through
this subjugating inertia of being
that seems to be filtering my
existence.
Yab, yab, yab
my brain tells me
that I'm about due to explode.
Do I implode perhaps? The
clicking of the dial as the timer
rotates, leeches me of the
patience required while I wait
for the situation to right itself.
Click, click
it charges me with
the audacity to authenticate
the feelings of despair with
the twistings of my mind.
Winnows? Wedges? Ruffling?
The raucuous din of the ego.
Atrp a-trap!
The flak asounds
with its noncommital resonance,
telling me to bury my altered
head into the stem of my arse
like the long-legged miscreant
that I am so comfortably
acquainted with.
Click
The glare of the flare
blinds more consistently and
the membrane of my cornea
starts to smolder. Smoking
eyes! Porno-psycho-imageries
slips into the lens-slot as the
convexity of my brain starts
its cycle of declivity.
'How do I put out the eyes?'
'Gouge out the pupils' came
the pontificated drawl that
was to be the reply. The
hedgemockery of crickets
grinned in unison. Weird, I
thought; crickets don't do
that. And my hands reached
out and pulled at my eyes.
© Luqman Lee /2002