I've lost count of the days,
making my corpse at home.
pour another drink,
cover your eyes
because the light pricks like iron nails.
I think all this ache would go away,
if I give in to destruction;
Kafka wrote about the relief
of giving in,
he didn't know of it-
because dismantled tales of slimy humane bugs would slither out of rotting graveyards otherwise.
there's a hole in here,
I'm breaking but there's a bone which keeps on taking the strain;
I'll be here, under the sheets
waiting for it to surrender.
My breaths are censored like the black king in a stalemate;
why's there art in bleeding
if it trickles down like punk beats,
sometimes it burns and rots
like stale coffee kept on my desk from friday,
because I'm supposed to wake up
but i didn't give in.
there's a eleven year old boy in my head,
he likes to throw around pebbles in the glass walls that i build up,
to lock in shadows of people I loved.
so they'd not leave,
but the night always sets in to snatch;
his eyes blazing like a crucible of wildfire,
he begins screaming when the shadows start talking.
he doesn't have many friends,
just this bartender at the end of my head,
who tells him about love and other nightmares.
he hates living in me,
it's all sour walls painted with onions,
open ceilings wrapped in cobwebs;
his mother put him in a casket down the street,
his scarred face hurt blue blood.
the air around had too much vanity to be able to breathe,
so he crawled into my head;
i kept a corner for the misfits,
the homeless and the crazy ones;
I don't know if they came to me,
or i made them up
in my head.
I tell them about plath
like some gospel truth
but white tiles don't scare away darkness.
Memoirs of tragedy don't put a roof on your head.
It's all saturated though,
now out here in my head;
all the gates are jammed,
the ones who crawled in are stuck,
the ones left out are slammed upon.
because graveyards can be beautiful only in poems,
sticking your head in an oven
is as grotesque as it sounds,
I'll not wrap it up in madness and other filmsy fancies,
but the most horrifying moment was,
the one when the eleven year old boy in plath's head walked out of the handmade asylum