Sick

I.

Ya, I’m thinking about all the wrong things
again.

Synaptic firings
hiring
every mutilated, unnatural,
grotesque
contemplation in a
vicious cycle of unwanted conceptualization.

II.

David Cronenburg infesting
my most vulnerable,
fixational

tendencies.

I am a centipede crawling from
oozing puddles of horror,

I am no more than slime ingested dried out and discarded,
extra limbs appendages eyeballs,
crimson blood secreting onto/into insects,
crawling swarming buzzing nesting fucking unstoppably

in my brain.

III.

I am scrutinizing everything that
repulses me;

overcompensating with
over-reactive
under-considered

defense mechanisms

and thereby empowering the
grotesque cyclical snare.

I’m tearing out my hair and
screaming in internal agony
as everything happens against my
wishes, and
against my vision.

The harder I fight
the tighter the noose becomes.

IV.

This inescapable horror
has me advocating double-think
and prayer
and self-deception.

I’ve erected a fallacious
battlement against the
banal barbarity
of the most vomitous, repellent

assailants.

V.

All I can hope for is enough luck
that it will

fade away,

and I won’t even
remember the misery.

It’s a mystery
how I can torture myself
like
this.

Willie Watt
2.1.16

 

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