diorama

 
 
 
Iridescent puddles under rusted streetlamps
Water of life
left to rot
to fester in garish neglect.
I ache to no longer feel; and the chill mist becomes my breath.
I am inured for now.
 
I want to tell because it screams through me.
Not sketch or story, a whirlwind, a storm
too vast and quick to grasp.
 
We each have our fascinations, our attractions, our kinks
of complex influences, early impressions interpreted by
autodidactic formulations, nascent neural interchange,
a striving to order chaos, to find place and attachment.
 
The worse things get, the less value accrues to sanity. 
A good enough delusion
will get you through most anything.
Why muck about in those nasty, bummer head tricks, kids?
Be happy in your total break with reality.
All power to the beautiful imagination!
No power to angry drudging,
viper spit pitiful rendition of every incident of shame,
renamed from innocent to vile.
A child is not merely a metaphor – fairytales and adoration.
A child suffers in the here and now
scrapes, bloody breaks, undying fear ignited
by vague nightmares,
words not heard —
who will love me now will be my friend and protector?
Not words,
uncomfortable silence where normality should be.
What have I done?  Who can I blame?  How can I hide?
Where am I allowed to pretend I’m alive?
 
Sundered from daylight, spinning out fantasies 
I would dream
if I slept —
inner arcade of escape
 
I take precaution, bathe in scant water mixed
with select herbs to blend into night,
another ancient tree clothed in lichens, mold,
saturating dust and ash, aged, pervasive,
nothing offensive or of note.
.
.
.

 

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