Syphon

I suppose theres some assumed solace in it.
The knowing of it, in having first hand experience 
or even of having run across it as one would an unusual bird.
To have felt the way it tightens so many different muscles
or how it can make you overly aware of your femoral pulse. 
There should be enough joy in having its existence well known and understood
it should sate one enough that it brushed your skin in passing 
or if it maybe caused you to loose sleep or vomit even. 
Ive wondered what life would be like as one who can appreciate and move on
to have the ability to absorb only as much as is given freely of something
without the driving throb to suck a feeling dry.
What a mercy it would be to consider a thing completed
and let it end there. 

The Glory Days

They were littered with cigarette butts and watered down drinks
there was just as much water in the whiskey as there was fear in my hands.
The tiniest grains would melt through my fingers
and the days would blow sand in my eyes.
Those days made me a sea sponge, a Viking spear and a pixie's heel all at the same time.
I was a jack of many trades and fucked up most of them.
The days liked to cough their sick-breath at me, unapologetically.
It was torrents of pinpricks and a handful of sliced arteries,
and the days loved to see me bleed.
And even though the sun dial tells me that those days have passed,
I still feel the room go cold and a naked apparition appears to wag its bony finger at me.

Untitled

There are nooks and crannies
catacombs, tiny crevices where they hide.
Like diverticulitis of the soul.
They fester, they infect and can flare up at any time.
They seem to sometimes break off and attempt to fill other places with their sputum.
Small granules of momentary thought, minuscule cupboards filled with an inventory
so vast, so varied, so impossible to properly catalog.
So instead they pop up at random, these fancies.
A kick to the liver or a spasm of skeletal tissue,
it's as if my very thought-borne come calling.
I've made them all by myself- ideas that have a life and an Is
once created they never, ever can be destroyed.
Some, their visits are less lethal than before,
their scariest faces or their regretful tone have lost their sting.
Others, I can feel their breath on my neck each day,
yet they always stop me - make me weep.
They will always be there, my minute hitchhikers.
Tagalongs with no purpose other than existing, reminding.
Some I wish to cradle, to kiss the soft spot on their infant heads
others need scolding - yet-
they are mine.
I own little in this life, little is fully mine.
But them, They.
My little minions, my burgeoning buggards.
No matter which end of the equator I'm on, they swirl in constant
a perpetual sand devil filled with them, all muttering in unison.