A cursed Morning...

What do they want from me?

I believe that of all the loathsome precepts of human-ness is the ability to stand callous chatter even when not interested. I haven’t had a drink in three days and I feel I could tear my beard out in a tempest. The hosts’ expectations that I would smile when tired of my soul, fades with my raunchy face piercing their morning joys - all that bile that swims abound my eyes splashing like wet-words of a suspicious hatred. They ask: Why are you acting like a child? And I flip! A ponderous groan heartlessly felling my lungs, then some strange upheaval of sadness. Fuck… what a patronizing query is that to respond to – ‘have you had a child to know how they act?’ Suddenly someone decides they want to yell my name… I wait to figure out what they want… and they suddenly act like I’m crude.

I hate my name being hollered at, in ghostly anticipation for no concrete reason posited prior to beckoning. It’s some minutes before noon; I am a tossed spirit that snored drunk and frightened itself out of torpor. I hate being talked to like I am a pedantic wench who needs to be guided through everything topical. And if they knew the sacramental terror of my leprous thoughts – those that numb fingers, skin – even the phallus (this muscular gum of sex a bore), they’d oil their tongues or just keep to themselves. I hate having to purport calm when wrath is gnawing my innards - I hate raised voices when addressing mine crouched in its ardent nonchalance.

Later, when the sun has chastised residual dread dredged into my muscles by nightmares, I walk about the yard, a bashing fear careening the gibbering knees folding wearily with every step. A frightened realization of gloom rises whence I notice the phone twinkling a message received as I slumped comatose. Then a perpetual void – I marvel at this self-reflection. A wild sensation of awe creeps through vein-catacombs – boils for veins, reined to a despicable horror, and like sultry gnomes, memories awake for my penance. Under a solemn tree I pull a loosened dread-lock and shove it in my pocket with other bouquets of dead flowers I picked up at the graves.

I am sick (even with that gleeful smile – a moron smile eclipsing my broken face) and this picnic joy is sourly waning, even when monkey angels drop pearls from sweet lips, flaring arms in jubilant hugs. I reciprocate though, but half-heartedly… and this shows. Fuck this day’s blow and its pheasants nesting in my chest.

Soon I sigh an inner voice saying: Tomb, bend to the wind this cursed day.

And true, sunset hovers without my notice and the night’s corpuscle awaits a bleed, announcing another frail dream as I watch the wall of leaves in the lavatory. I eat, drink tea and decide to try bedding, but not a dream, just foul reminiscence of death’s stench xylophoned in my mould.