A madness descends upon one to attend
the clock on the wall after those who recall
the hiding or seeking and soft squeaking
in a dilapidated cottage of the deeper wood.
Harlequin colors within an irrational swirling
find a mind spinning in the haze of red wine
and I can’t find my way through night or day
blinded by the tock, as the tick seeks to rock.
Standing there bare, while the cat’s on the chair
dizzy and fading while the clock sings a sonnet.
Feeling no pain within a numbness of the brain
salvation’s a meal, confined in a maniacs creel.
Dance by the fire, whilst absorbing warm desire
within the fistula of life, a steamy purge of strife
moving with a gallop through the life of a trollop
cast spells in the dark, to a stars reddish quark.
I am whom you think, wasting away in the stink;
listening to “Lunatic Fringe”, on tape in the parlor
readying the knife, I’ll dissect your wretched life
within a dilapidated cottage of the deeper wood.