The dopamine skirmish

I. The haunted callosum
A partial hallucination
in my knotted nerve radar.
For every whisper is applause
in my choir of worldwide
chatter. It makes big doe
eyes of my dosed bug-eyes.
Plato’s one at the end of the gun
the split-second tan
smells like carbon and old men,
like marching powder in the septum.
Vigilant like a white cell
I revolve around my hip bone
in my bone eating chamber.
Tar-of-calc in my beard I tan
again at the taste of it
as my split jaw hangs silent.
II. The glowing lymph
The mites inside it
dug themselves a stage
when twelve was thirteen
and to witness was to see
then radical went the face
full of holes none of them
attractive to my hand.
The laughter hunter’s appetite—
gore on the plate
round like tomatoes
or the pineal gland
long-emptied and ignored.
The nuisance of my body
should never bother the noise
of its fleas, my close company.
III. The dream molecule
Something is sucking
at my gestalt,
eating the keystone alive
like nipping
cockbirds at my
blind-black burial suit,
threads thick as elbows
out of my skin afloat
or vibrating off
the boundary of all alphabets
that will not touch my tongue. [1]
IV. The groin rifle
Night: all is morbid din.
My guilty foreskin
pinned a devil
to my earlobe, wound ed.
In the gall of every other
goon syllable
that steals the meaning
from my hoard of tryptamines
is my deadpan fear.
A shaman in the corner nude:
fold a dead bladder in
half, behold the fountain of youth.
Advice from the doctor’s mouth
more opiate than tissue.
Limply am if awake fifty
self-same days and noons.
Just what prolepsis glued
this absence on my face,
this oxide etching on my barrel
knowing my head is the stone above it?

notes: that itch to inherit my tongue


~ by Jeremy on November 3, 2011.

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