fear

passing faces carry thoughts
basic emotions
finding me
winding muscles like guitar strings
a fevered rash
I sleep through days
I drag psychic weight

red and black tentacles
from an unnamed enmity
invisible, whip and curl
lick and lash

I was a vibrant prism
now I'm made of mud

in dreams
they are screaming, choking
hiding red pupils
it is always night
awake
I can sense their dark
around corners

in crowds, eyes closed
sharp angles extend inward
an iron maiden
trapping out light
not quite reaching
too much, suffocating
my aura

Bedwetter I

In her dreams, all bathrroms are labyrinths. Each one is different. Sometimes with white square tiles spanning endlessly in a network of private stalls. Sometimes with dirty wet floors; urinals and stalls separated by moats of septic refuse. She searches for the perfect toilet. Once found and seated, she's often partially, if not totally, exposed to those passing by. It takes a long time to get a trickle going, if at all. Then she wakes up in her own warm puddle.

Snappy

I use bare fingers
to pull back flaps of skin
to probe lifeless organs
Embalmed cat muscles
are a shade darker than
cooked chicken meat
I've gotten used to the smell

I dig, we dig
The coveted pregnant cat
We replace her matted fur
coat after each session
Her name is Snappy

Impetus

too many teeth
crowding
words crowding
mouthful of spit

mechanical clockwork repetition
in-FLECK-shun
in-fleck-SHUN?

has a puppet
silent
similar in movement
begging
kiss me
kiss me
denied

in private
secret exchanges
middle finger tickling
brown puckered
secret

host swells
EGO
inflated nothing

Untitled

You're standing outside, watching. Her silhouette glides between the two windows, opening and closing the curtains and blinds. The lights switch on and off without pattern, alternately fast and slow. You can't tell if she's naked or clothed, smiling or stoic--she must be smiling; this is torture. It's impossible to know when she'll stop, if she'll stop. But you wait.