Hysteria.

Panic tickles the back of my
bone marrow dome,
prisoner in a blood and centrifugal home,

frightened of mirrors
and the aberration projected
from the apparition invented in my head.

Ghosts beneath the bedsheet of
my head,

demons blacking out the spreadsheet of
my head,

faerie monsters scratching up the orderly furniture of
my head,

wisps and goblins and trolls and unicorns and leprechauns
and fucking Looney Tunes retcon
the hard earned continuity of my head,

bugs bunny pissing in my hedge;
funds depleted by visions of ecstasy
in my head,

soul replete of vitality from neutrality
in my head,

caution guards the gate to my graveyard,
I am dead
I am dead
I am dead
in my head.

Jesus Christ there is a goddamn monster truck in my head!
my head
my head is on fire! I see blinking headlights and sweat dripping from my naked body to tires of an unregistered pencil shaving heart for hire, eyes emblazoned with a maestro’s virtuosic desire, higher higher higher the flame in my head rapes the perfect darkness and sets the night sky aflame with demons of rage demons of hope demons of want demons of streetlights and cars driving ten over the speed limit and caffeine inebriates and nuclear holocaust
and hope
and hope
and hope
and the flaming rope tethering me to moons of tranquility and oceans of knowledge

and I’m drowning
and I’m burning
and bugs bunny is still pissing in my hedge
and the perfect darkness screams for clemency

and the apparition in my head doubles over
to cough up the technicolored vomit
all over the bedsheet
it never could have survived
without.

Willie Watt
12/19/14

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