skeletal nakedness,

lurking in the shadow black corner

of a moonlit room

invisible,

but emitting a hum

fifty octaves below human hearing

eyes closed
the world vanishes
a switch is flipped
and I’m adrift

but the world spins on
i can hear it
if i listen

otherwise, it’s just chaos on a distant shore

two planks plonk against one another,
and I await a judge to call this world to order

the tinkle of a tiny bell
reminds me of snapping icicles
but unless the world has shifted under me
i’m in a place that only knows icicles
on the inside of an ice-cream vendor’s cart

what has made the puttering
of the Jetsons’ car so bass?
oh, that is a scooter

as i drift
a montage sounds,
signalling a shipwreck on that far shore
the clunk of a timber washed against sea worn rocks,
creaking wet rope,
the moans of wounded sailors,
and the screech of a seagulls

I bumped my knee,

and got angry.

But, oh, my word,

it seemed absurd

to be enraged

as war I waged

on the kindling I made of that table.

Go ahead, run your hand over the surface.

Stroke reality to get your bearings.

But don’t name things.

Don’t categorize.

Don’t think that because you can label and box a thing that you have it contained.

— That you’ve sealed in its essence —

You’ve just locked it in a deeper strain of darkness.

I don’t want to turn your world on its head,
let out all the lunatics and lock away the normals.
I just want to poke holes in your boxes.