In the inevitable night, where upon the habitual ritual of desire pulsates many a bed over, a primordial pulmonary malfunction of design, sets me in a counterclockwise wind…I slow my breathing, shallow and extending in a pattern of gradual demise, and I ignite in a visceral realization, my body wrenching in a celloid coil, my only transparency, the sheen of deja vu overlaying my eyes…a fish in a fit of survival, batters itself in instinct, to find its source of thrive…I twist contorted hands into sheets, cutting off circulation with serrated starburst indentations, I devise a rhythm of gripping for security and scratching for survival, drenched in sweat, pooled in the inability to take my first breath, choking on my tongue, I can’t swallow…the pain, the cage rattling agony, the terror of amplification, as I scream a tempest battering, a banshee sounding my own death…dislodging another prisoner of memory, incarcerated in the solitary confines of my mind…I am the executioner, a murder of self so divine, I speak in glyphs illumined upon my skin from a continuum deep within the chasm of being, and I read of the luciferian liberation...
E.A. O'Connell. November 2018
No comments:
Post a Comment