Rorschach Blood
Five fingers one to three thru five
Dipping into the darkness
It hangs on the pads, filling my prints
Palmreader couldn’t predict such happenings
This paper smudged with surrounding light
Rorschach bloods and my silence speaks too loud
This mortar and bone office with frames &
Cush leather chains onto my belt
Tighter n tighter I press into the cushion
Welting my waistline
Intent on those fingers
Dilating pupils
Pinpoints of refraction from spectacles
Perked on hook nose
A perfect disguise for acceptance
While looking the way to the soul
Downward into the spiral he would ride
Yet his own vacuous psychotic mind
Feigns that of superior sanity
Keeping him safe
Sameness blames slippery one liners
Hanging in the silence of my thought cloud
Slowly turning grey with the dark
Seeping through pores into my blood spores
Their uncharted ride into madness
Leaves their stains where the last of sanity
Remains
Uncharted and vast hiding in the grimy clasp
Of clogged neurons tired from years
Of pollution
Their weak electrical pulses mimic
My slow movements
And apathetic attitudes towards
Rorschach dreams
Pathetic means of analytical charts
And graphs
You are here they say
While I still am lost in the grey thought cloud
Waiting for the darkness to color
Me into the hue of the slavery that has enveloped
My very nature of humanness
5 fingers one to three thru five
Waving high
Stone still
Waiting patiently for my scripts
Undecipherable to an untrained eye
Familiar to my hungry heart
Failure to cry may be the result
Of paranoia and dementia
Welcoming me back home
So with one finger I touch my eyelids
Smearing them black
Rubbing a little too hard
Till stars and sunrises of yesterday
Break way for one
Little tear
Tremor the lip
Then comes the understanding
Between the patient and the nose
And a solemn one handed goodbye
Clenching the other fist
With next month’s fix.
oscillate infinities 8
Dragging on a fag
Timeclock on the bed
Risen earlier than yesterday
Enjoying the sound
And smoke circles my tousled hair
The morning whispers
That’s the time that’s the time
Running round in mine
Mine colors in the morning
When ya rise
Letting go falling back on the bed
Softness underhead
Last night I had thick sunglasses
And split vision
Like a tv screen
Me talking with me
And me talking with her
She laughed like a pig
Yea she did
I looked with my eyes
They were hid
Up n down
Yea I see her
Three buttons down
Cleft of breast
Yea I love the best
Freedom in the west
Smoking in the bed
Yea im thinking
Of the time
N its early
Admiring my wristwatch whose eager
Eager for me to don my man clothes
And strap him on
I yanked the arm on the 78
Screeches scratching a beat
Calling out an invitation to hit the street
And sit
Sit on the wall
Listening to the cat calls
And the ambulances
Someone says hey asshole
And I smile
And greet back fuck you
Yea that’s all
Yanking the arm on the 78
Burning my poetic groove deep in the plastic
Dreams of successful dead men
Who whisper to me in the morning
Ooh god ooh god
Mine eyes are still pixled and dilated
And I trip on the toe tag
That wasn’t there last night
Ooh what a fright
When the cracks on the walls appeared
With my eyes that wouldn’t open
Those leaden arms
And the doctor still wanted to do some tests
& I fantasized about how she looked
Skinny she was
Bulimic or anorexic skinny
Sick or wanton
With lips thicker and holes fer eyes
Colored so holy heroins so in love
With her skeletal breasts
That lead images of need
Nipples that bleed in the sink
Hastily washed away
Gripped on the brink of death
She stinks of stale breath
And cat walks all over my night
Where I smoked and smoked
Listening to the alarm
So eagar to arm my skin
With its salty grins
And dead batteries
Echoing inside my sleeping heart
Pixilated eyes
Blur the tag
Surprised I cant read
So hey It cant be me
In the morning greeting the
Colors that oscillate
With infinities number 8′s
About the author:
I reside in Dallas, Ga. Recently published with InnerCirclePublishing latest book titled: Evolution: beingjohnsweet, works appeared in Haggard & Halloo and Poetry Warrior Magazine. Self published 8 other chap book style poetry books under the pen name of beingjohnsweet. Graduate of Central Michigan University BA, focus on creative arts. Father of 3 and husband to a beautiful princess.
