Monday, August 10, 2015

prose poem 17 | touch, sound, and burning disgust

Dread twists its sliming knots, impossible to grasp and untangle.
The phone wrings fear from thin air.
The wretched world of men presses through walls, under doors, against the window, within the ear. Human contact exacts its burning disgust.
Serenity flows away, particles into space, leaving weakness in its place.
My gut wrenches so often, I do not bother with mint.
I do not bother.

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