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They were so precious before
they scaled the glass, peering over, wild with hunger, eyes glowing with desire of having tasted glory of exercising, pleading their case for dessert. Skimming the pastry, they dance. With healthy contest they compete, brother and sister jockeying for pole position, ready with whip, slandering, scraping, daring another with faster horse round the bakery bend, curves ahead. This sprint is delectable with recipes for disaster, adding Solomon to the icing, the chocolate, a wise nonchalance, she deflates intoxication with denials of apparent reality. It's only flour, sugar and some other things that operate, like caffeine, the drugs stake their claim, in minutes more must be ingested to arrest the declination of cookie, Nice try, your attempted escape from the tiny hands made for cookie. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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If the sound were enough
of a diagnosis, we would all be impressed with your lungs, shouting as they do. Nothing to do with you, of course. But my ears do not lie in this court, and you are clearly sick, bleating like a helpless lamb, innocent, yet guilty of yellow, slimy brown, as it trickles - ejecting thoughts so dark, they barely are reliable to describe the latest bloody emergency room entry, callous though the diagnosis is, the doctor was plain in his description of Britannica and Webster, they both stand up to whoops of deconstruction, decomposing lungs. Mind you, we would never laugh at your predicament, sterile water running, your body drawing in more definitions of serious, nursing water, drenched in bile, infectious, diseased dirt. Please let us know when you have painted your brown walls with Lysol so we can breath near you, list you among the living, listen to your talk without your brazen hacking, begging for sympathy. But mostly it's the description that hurts the decor, and listening to jarring rhythms of people who otherwise might be dead. © 2013 Larry Ingram It comes and goes slyly,
haunting this pillow, a sculpture of time I never knew dreamed, created like that, artistic, but deconstructing me and my health. But its balance is due, to me, to attempt working toward this destination. I can't tell when it will begin to pay dividends, bring sanity to me. Act as though you never knew it, this impression on work, nerves that string along as though they were friendly, they connive to drain beer as it drugs Styrofoam. A vacuum of sorts, it sucks me against the wall, against myself, no one to tell, no one to mask this aspect of night, the darkness that is bright. But now I see rationally this escape from the rational. Tthis mistake in not befriending the hallucinogenic talent that takes me above cloudy skies, with plenty of stars staking a claim. Trekking above is fun, but who's kidding who when we collapse beside a child. Exhausted, our souls want more, but less from us, from the day. I drain this last keg of hope. It's dying this, with me as I grab onto Frodo, the ring near, but far from ghostly people wh0 want so desperately to let me go, let me dream a proper dream, let me sleep. © 2013 Larry Ingram |
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