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Lost and Bound Up (Spinal Cord tightly rolled into a bundle and dumped)
#WritcoPoemPrompt37
In the quietest part of the night,
When you hover between dark and light,
Wondering if you can float away on dreams,
Hoping they won't turn into screams...
I muse, "this ain't so bad. Shit."
Hell...last night I was lost in the woods and gettin torn to shreds by brambles.
At least there's no crazy countryfolk perpin betwixt the creepy trunks
Waitin for punks
Those woods were private.
I was the punk in question
They shoot first.
God help us.
I was a monk
Well...I lived like a monk.
And I stunk
I punched in...
He's on the clock.
He's cocking his glock.
Or wait that's a knock off.
Or maybe not.
It could be a fractal dispensing inflicter with a laser site. From the year 2234.
The laser site is from 1999.
Wow. Gone into space time in a fit of delirium. Warped. Ripped. Made a few drop offs.
Picked one up.
What a tool.
Shhhh.
I'm talking and I'm reckoning. I'm racking my brains. I'm wrecking em.
Put em back on the rack. You break it you fry it.
Monotonous spools of spew are fluidly flowing through me. From deep space. Dejected hyperbole directed at ghouls.
And you.
I'm a Mormon. Formally.
So I gotta conform to certain. Conformoties.
You commodotise forensic criminal torture. People buy it.
Is this yours?
No, sir.
It is not. I did not go on a spree.
I am not that door to door ambling psychotic.
I'm a fine example of a Mormon. A lil neurotic.
No goring or stabbing of every imaginable person I catch in that door opening without even the most haphazard wack at critical decorum.
The glue of our swarm.
Or whatever. Lord.
I'm sorry.
Well...gone with the wind.
The wind brought me to a well gone place.
See, it swept me off my face with footsy smells.
Mold.
Dust.
Cigarettes lingering.
Vague musk.
Or must it be? I'm indoors.
Must be the mist. It just floats.
A fine wine, amoung mists - waste pits, trash heaps, gas fumes and other reeks carried in its gust
Like a realm gone nuts.
No lifeform traces, but prying forms do emerge, vying for every nerve ending.
Faces merge.
With swank, I linger in perpetual delinquency
Two steps into a mire
Keeping with the beat
My strange, dank little sinkhole
Everyday of the week
Compelling evidence:
E-mails to Bill (Nye*)are brought to case. Phased out and streamed in from satellite beams, routed down into shadows that prowl around...
It was a real thought.
It made sense.
Pain hurts.
Hurt lays one out.
Manhood? Out the manhole.
Maners? Back to Neanderthal.
I'm amazed.
I'm not dead.
Not living.
A rat race equates emaciation. rr=e2
At the very least, tax evasion.
I'm here.
I'm sitting and dying.
Or knitting here quietly.
Almost time for bed. Dead of the night.
Trimming my side hedges.
In winter.
Why am I writing this? I have yard work to do.
It's 2 am and I'm on the move.
* The science guy
© JacobAlive
In the quietest part of the night,
When you hover between dark and light,
Wondering if you can float away on dreams,
Hoping they won't turn into screams...
I muse, "this ain't so bad. Shit."
Hell...last night I was lost in the woods and gettin torn to shreds by brambles.
At least there's no crazy countryfolk perpin betwixt the creepy trunks
Waitin for punks
Those woods were private.
I was the punk in question
They shoot first.
God help us.
I was a monk
Well...I lived like a monk.
And I stunk
I punched in...
He's on the clock.
He's cocking his glock.
Or wait that's a knock off.
Or maybe not.
It could be a fractal dispensing inflicter with a laser site. From the year 2234.
The laser site is from 1999.
Wow. Gone into space time in a fit of delirium. Warped. Ripped. Made a few drop offs.
Picked one up.
What a tool.
Shhhh.
I'm talking and I'm reckoning. I'm racking my brains. I'm wrecking em.
Put em back on the rack. You break it you fry it.
Monotonous spools of spew are fluidly flowing through me. From deep space. Dejected hyperbole directed at ghouls.
And you.
I'm a Mormon. Formally.
So I gotta conform to certain. Conformoties.
You commodotise forensic criminal torture. People buy it.
Is this yours?
No, sir.
It is not. I did not go on a spree.
I am not that door to door ambling psychotic.
I'm a fine example of a Mormon. A lil neurotic.
No goring or stabbing of every imaginable person I catch in that door opening without even the most haphazard wack at critical decorum.
The glue of our swarm.
Or whatever. Lord.
I'm sorry.
Well...gone with the wind.
The wind brought me to a well gone place.
See, it swept me off my face with footsy smells.
Mold.
Dust.
Cigarettes lingering.
Vague musk.
Or must it be? I'm indoors.
Must be the mist. It just floats.
A fine wine, amoung mists - waste pits, trash heaps, gas fumes and other reeks carried in its gust
Like a realm gone nuts.
No lifeform traces, but prying forms do emerge, vying for every nerve ending.
Faces merge.
With swank, I linger in perpetual delinquency
Two steps into a mire
Keeping with the beat
My strange, dank little sinkhole
Everyday of the week
Compelling evidence:
E-mails to Bill (Nye*)are brought to case. Phased out and streamed in from satellite beams, routed down into shadows that prowl around...
It was a real thought.
It made sense.
Pain hurts.
Hurt lays one out.
Manhood? Out the manhole.
Maners? Back to Neanderthal.
I'm amazed.
I'm not dead.
Not living.
A rat race equates emaciation. rr=e2
At the very least, tax evasion.
I'm here.
I'm sitting and dying.
Or knitting here quietly.
Almost time for bed. Dead of the night.
Trimming my side hedges.
In winter.
Why am I writing this? I have yard work to do.
It's 2 am and I'm on the move.
* The science guy
© JacobAlive
