Brain Worms

All credit to Captain Three Leg for the image.
Image credit to Captain Three Leg

Wiggling brain worms of love
cross each other on withering paths,
laying out siege plans and more,
demanding the mind bow and be labeled a whore.
Tussling tatters of titrated remains,
their infection spreads softly
but fierce is the pain.
When all is lost to the annals of memory
(that malleable stuff made of thoughts stuck in entropy),
we’ll know not the beginning,
seek to suss out the end.
But by that point the parasites will be dug in,
they’ve rewired the hardware,
unfucked the program and rewritten the codes.
Their beautifully at odds with all we call real,
if God were a worm I might be filled with more zeal.
A zest for the unknown where dreams can take flight,
even a place to call home in the bitterest of nights.
But, here I sit.
Obliterated identity left off as a stain
to be cleaned by the new host
who’d prefer I be insane.

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Smile Damnit

Hit me with the zap darling,

Break apart the cheek sockets,

Gimme a zing that chews joy,

Spits grit and evaporates misery,

I’d like one for the road,

Splintering that jaw bone,

Forcing the brightside parade of glee,

And even if,

I’ve got tongue sized words to disagree,

They don’t matter much,

When eyes twitch out of touch,

I’m lubricated,

Half insane,

Thank God for magic moments,

Watching sadness drift down a drain.

Stuck

Stuck on,

Wash, rinse, repeat,

Stuck on,

Reading the same page.

Stuck on,

Making the same mistakes,

Stuck on,

Being stuck on.

Crystal Meth

Pumped up on that chalky sunshine,

The moon is fading to another vicious morning.

Spent my hours beneath the starlight in the wind,

Lovingly hitting repeat on every action I’d begin.

Glassed eyes and withered muscles ache,

Blood thundering past a thirst impossible to slake.

The ride was hot and heavy to the top,

Until we picked up speed enough to never stop.

Becoming a Literary Exhibitionist

Exhibitionism at it’s finest calls for a complete strip down – but like most nudity, sometimes those watching would prefer the clothes stayed on. Authors must dangle and hope the meat on display attracts the eye. Easier perhaps when your life is wrenched from the most vivid hallucinations of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson then run through the Douglas Adams’ improbability drive. Prodded with LSD and electrified glow-sticks into the Minotaur’s lair to play. Surely that would entertain?

This is a lifelong dream, a Purpose or a calling that I’ve never been able to just put ahead of everything else. Please share, and thank you for taking the time to browse. Thank you.

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