His mind is hysterical, spinning at high speeds.
At the east end of the house
Is a study room packed with old furniture and numerous paintings.
The blinds are drawn
And they throw a view of the misty hilltops.
He sits near the rear window,
On a large wooden chair,
And his eyes stare intently
At an insect sitting on his right index finger.
His mind is like a cinema-house,
Constantly flickering images from the past.
First - a purple-painted tongue, sharp, slender and sudden,
Like the color of some forbidden wild berries;
Second - the bitterness of his father’s baritone voice
Shrilling through his ears;
Third - sticky, sweaty little palms
Clutching to a black gown at his mother’s funeral;
Fourth - the urge he felt in his calves,
When he crushed a flower
Under the weight of his heavy boots;
Fifth - a scrawny, slender figure in black metal
Hanging, or seems to be hanging, from a cross,
And the haunting chime of the church bells;
Sixth - the tingling in his forearms
When he smashed a kitten’s skull
With a single blow from a stolen baseball bat;
Seventh - the nauseating smell of rain-soaked grass,
Color – a violent green,
And the instant loathing for every object the world calls beautiful;
Eighth - a large, hairy man pinning a little girl against the bed,
Completely overpowering, physically devouring,
The memory chokes like a coin stuck midway down the throat.
The images
Never fail the sequence.
They howl ferociously,
Until the migraine sets in, spiraling his head
To grotesque proportions.
He escapes to the basement,
To the home of seven rotten corpses,
And two rotting ones.
Thousands of termites
Eat into the damp, wooden cabinets that hold them.
The doorbell rings,
And he abruptly awakens
At the east end of the house
Is a study room packed with old furniture and numerous paintings.
The blinds are drawn
And they throw a view of the misty hilltops.
He sits near the rear window,
On a large wooden chair,
And his eyes stare intently
At an insect sitting on his right index finger.
His mind is like a cinema-house,
Constantly flickering images from the past.
First - a purple-painted tongue, sharp, slender and sudden,
Like the color of some forbidden wild berries;
Second - the bitterness of his father’s baritone voice
Shrilling through his ears;
Third - sticky, sweaty little palms
Clutching to a black gown at his mother’s funeral;
Fourth - the urge he felt in his calves,
When he crushed a flower
Under the weight of his heavy boots;
Fifth - a scrawny, slender figure in black metal
Hanging, or seems to be hanging, from a cross,
And the haunting chime of the church bells;
Sixth - the tingling in his forearms
When he smashed a kitten’s skull
With a single blow from a stolen baseball bat;
Seventh - the nauseating smell of rain-soaked grass,
Color – a violent green,
And the instant loathing for every object the world calls beautiful;
Eighth - a large, hairy man pinning a little girl against the bed,
Completely overpowering, physically devouring,
The memory chokes like a coin stuck midway down the throat.
The images
Never fail the sequence.
They howl ferociously,
Until the migraine sets in, spiraling his head
To grotesque proportions.
He escapes to the basement,
To the home of seven rotten corpses,
And two rotting ones.
Thousands of termites
Eat into the damp, wooden cabinets that hold them.
The doorbell rings,
And he abruptly awakens
Into a subconscious mayhem.
The introvert closes his eyes,
The attention-seeker opens his.
The conformist ducks into his shell,
The narcissist emerges.
The facade peels off,
Something feral surfaces to the boiling core.
Conscience clings to the last straw of hope,
While an insatiable hunger throttles the soul.
The emotion is inexplicable,
It runs deep,
It’s an inexplicable wrath
That compels the monster to murder.
The doorbell rings again.
That compels the monster to murder.
The doorbell rings again.
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