Her hair was rusty as her memory,
Standing somewhere in New York battling the perceptions
That her baby may one day be something other than an anonymous
Character in a sickening story line.
She could hear the pigeons speak in riddles chewing the fabric of the Homeless; where was this hunting animal passion coming from these days. The rapturous zeal to rise into the crowd of reality, capturing all of the silly Things people call souvenirs, from this city or another. And she’d traveled All these ways into her urban waters of deception; and of course she was rising above these transparencies and collecting the future in her thin fingers, tasting it, remembering for once the clarity she’d once knew of love for her coming child.
Madness is like a worm, hiding inside ventricles and basal ganglia,
Twiddling its tail for the proper time to wrap itself around your brain,
Your thoughts, your mind, your consciousness.
One day you’ll be in love; the next a victim of the slimy creature.
You see things through the worms eyes, and you can’t cry for tears
Are jokes now; and you can’t feel for feelings are speculative lies
You ponder and ponder while alone in your bed,
And you never wish for an end; the worm becomes your pet,
Your little entity of delusion to color the world, and it even speaks to you,
Sullen tongues, divine authority, deceptive hisses, laughing, laughing, laughing as you now walk down the street, with company.
There is no End.
