A composing ghost

By the bed, rarely made, a man unmade,
I think, by the weight of his contempt for being.
He slaps the walls. He makes no noise of his own.
As I watch this man, this frail figment
as all men are, but figments of further figments,
I lay down my opium pipe and attempt to stand.
I fall, which is better than retching, which is
better than disappearing, onto the floorboards.
I make no noise and my nerves fly out like
overlong tendrils or wispy tuber shoots
tickled at some odd nutrient.

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~ by Jeremy on June 11, 2012.

One Response to “A composing ghost”

  1. beautiful

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