"Day today, with the darkness choking and soaking the sheets. Slitting the throat of the dark with indelible squid coating the tongue. Hats off to the moonlight living in the darkness of my mind with a sluice from the inkwell's cul-de-sac."
Accused of being a sorcerer of the devil." But! Wizards could cut stones! Awaiting, council, to pass sentence, for playing patty cake, with a golem made out of the mud. Sleeping in a cell of straw, covered in feces and screeching rats.
"Hey, Boys and Girls! It's Howdy Doody Time."
Reaching for the inhaler of nitrous oxide connected to my arteries as if Charon was its pilot. Whispering, the Pater Noster, defying the evil or provoking it. My mind was now in detox. Awaiting the night's hypnotist to provide me with a garth of words. "Give me this day my daily bread, saving my sins for tomorrow, and if tomorrow never comes, save my soul for the anatomy."
Knowing despite it all, I wanted to survive. Traveling, the tailwinds of the albacore in my mind's dark poetic philosophy. No room for a red herring in my mind's dark cupola as the silence shouts my forthcoming obituary.
Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash! Wherever you are!
Lately, my dreams and my nightmares were dead. I couldn't get a thought-on to muster the strength to pen a single line. Insomnia had become a painful truth that I had lost my rigor to swagger. In my mind's dark cupola as the silence shouts my forthcoming obituary. Between stone and mortar, I confess, I buried no quarter of my sanity.
My sinuses failed a neti pot, causing my headaches. How far would I be able to go before it was too much, what would illuminate my skills, and how would I remain prolific?
And dark's tracheostomy. Seeking, gloam of the moonlight. Life was but a nightmare that I could not see. Knowing that life is a fantasy of dreams and nightmares. I balanced the scale with common sense. Taking a seat and waiting, for my number to be called in the lottery. while screaming."I want an attorney and not Mr. Magoo!"
Voilà! The Bogieman is my theme!
Playing boogieman with the Pontiff, singing, "Ring around the Rosie." Leaving boils and rashes to plague the skin. A slapstick with the Holy Father as he chanted Latin liturgy. Eyes of the dead peeked out from the incense censer, whispering, "May I have a cookie?"
Some fifty years ago, as a young seminarian, liquidating my worldly goods, castrating my human family from my mind, taking the vows of celibacy as I scrounged in the catacombs beneath the Vatican.
Once a tonsured monk. Hooked on suet pudding containing dark sultana raisins, dried beneath the abbey's shadow. In the moonlight of the abbey's garden. Imbibing the night, scratching the cat as if it was Jehoshaphat, on the wobbly stones.
With traits of Nebuchadnezzar while eating the grass these last seven years. Now dark my confessor in the cell of my mind's Gotham City. I see no other souls behind these walls as my temperature rises with a corpse tied to my leg.
Now home for the Holidays with Mother Livonia. Despite a cancel culture from a laboratory dish, a bogeyman chasing dreams. With an inverted candle labrum for legs, where tapers once stood. A menace in the womb of society, playing patty-cake with the undead, exhumed with the grace of torrential mud-slides.
Between stone and mortar, I confess, I buried no quarter of my soul. A madman, knowing the score of death's little echoes. Between the sheets as the albatross bray at my shadow. An intoxication of my words immortality without talcum to hide my insanity.