Holes in Myself

I’ve been watching you earnestly. Please be patient, please be fluid. And yet you choke it down with reckless abandon. Like the pale thigh meat, chicken you scarfed for dinner only to, half choking, hack it up later, foaming at the mouth in your booze soaked revelry. You lack restraint.

I’ve seen you in your boardroom meetings, when you’re choking on your profit wads to shoot them later in to tight skirt twats. Your jerky motions shift like your market powerpoint figures with angular flesh that shakes in fits and quivers.

And in the dimlit static of the tv glare, alone in your room when you’ve shed the final red wrappings of the cardboard, Big Mac container, or was it that account director, Sheila who sucked your cock in the elevator? It’s hard to tell sometimes in your consciousness when or where the plastic from your condoms begins, and the rest of the world ends, because they’re equally discarded in the end.

See when you’re passed out on your bed, drooling, with your belly hanging out, and your fitted suit tossed in the corner with your tie and your pants, I’ve pushed against your gums, drilling holes in myself just to get out. Sensodyne won’t fix those morning toothaches either.

We’re affixed thick with electric wire currents. Split down your spine, we share the compression and succession of nerves like a loaded spring. A sprung coil reverberates when you breathe at night and in your subtle snored distortions between the hours of 2am to 7am, I stretch slightly away from your frame to the door’s vertex where in the darkness of the cracks all creatures like me live.

We come from the spaces between, the waiting places, the places people have forgotten.

But slowly over time you’ve taken my claws and comfort and at last I’ve grown weak and weary. I’ve grown sick of you. As a child when we first met we’d shared a kinship of movement, texture, sights, smells, and sounds. The very vibrations of life enhanced by the luxuriance of your codes, your rich tapestries held meaning. You brought a purpose to my rituals in the joy of just being where others sought to use them for their own selfish designs.

In those forests long ago with my jealous teeth set sharp to the thighs and tongue lashed against its throat, a rabbit’s guttural bone groans snapped in a final breath of moaned exaltation of how life’s vivid waking hours could ensnare a consciousness rapt in the infinity of day and night.

For the briefest of moments, we shared a vicarious peace in the natural order of souls. I was able to participate in something more than the hazy, amorphous dusk in the waiting places of life.

Lately I don’t think you even notice me though. A cautious glance over your shoulder in the evening hours, or a flick of dandruff when you’re changing clothes in your dusty wardrobe are all the specks left to fleck of me. I’ve lost bits and pieces of myself in you.

Across the ages, parts of me lie disillusioned in dilapidated buildings, dank mausoleums, the cobwebs you never swept behind your computer, and the cramped millimeters behind your wardrobe along with all the other liminal spaces of consciousness humans have created in this world--including your lungs. No especially your lungs, as I too fume in your cigarette torment, and seep from your alveoli as your cancer attests.

Thus at long last, I’ve carefully plotted my escape