The art is hidden for now. I have obeyed too long. I feel frozen. While my possession eats the heat. Where have you gone? Slid behind the clouds? Perfumed doors. Rooms go from stale to rancid blindness. I feel bloodless. Accidental and lost a shine. Pale funeral songs. The black dresses are now my misery These, that dance above me twisting. Swing dancing into a hex. All ghosts, all witchery. Former waves that blew the knives over us and dared us to swim the lake. Dim are my eyes and bones that have chalked. As Jacques sings "Ma mort attend comme" I hold all the flowers, I hold all the crippled photographs. Elderly and young photos. Fortune tellers in the clouds. Deafening light from outside. I want the puniness of a weak night. No hardening storm. No flooding streets and screaming thunder. They, the geese she'd use to fly over me. I felt lucky to have them. A new direction. To escape them. To escape him. To escape the cage of screams. Those 8 Geese of Hanover that kept hovering me. My guardian angels I would welcome them to my melting wax home. I wonder now if they were truly demon. Explosions, the apple and all. As now alone and severed I feel that they are the same as these hauntings. I watch 8 black dresses hover over me now. But they in these garments, they bite. The geese have transitioned their colours. I awake to scissor teeth marks on my skin. So they are heaving to me the curse. Still. The Curse. Always that curse. Do holy bibles hiss? Is my god a blonde bombshell? Is my god a tornado? Is my god a magical bearded fabulous genius? Is my god a chirping cricket? Is my god a newborn baby? Is my god a morphine drip? My revelation is a promise? Le deuxième ange sonna de la trompette befitting. closing eyes. staring into darkness, rippled waters I feel in the air of this room. Leave the lake, become my misery. In this room that pain stares at me. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
Fevers of the Mind 