This road is made of four walls.
One day – maybe Sunday – the green dragon
might insert itself within the waking
fantasy that cloudy walks, talks, but in
what language I cannot say, for I cannot
recognize the noises in the drums
inside my head. I beg thee shut the fuck up,
dearest; excuse my mood while like a pendulum
it swings, like a wrecking ball it demolishes
iconic fixtures into ruins, relics.
Get back darling, stand at a distance
safe from the reach of my accidental agony.
Stand back dearest, don’t come near the
murderous mystery, don’t console the beast.
Where hast thou buried my once potent
patient potion, Prudence. Where hast thou
buried the ashes of my still blood-dripping
flesh, Woman. Existence, your premise
is the fabric of my nightly hysterics.
Amen.
