11/06/2011

Phases of the Insane

these amber mornings were made of discoloured highs,
buried neatly under the mapped watermark of purpose

unable to function in present tense or think in adjectives
I drowned where I slumped, under lethargic layers of white

my glassed lenses arrived wrapped in crinkled gold paper
now – I could only see in negatives and hasty shadings

oh wasted sepia mornings! veiled behind patterned blinds;
drinking zamzam water from the cupped hands of the dead

climbing the wallpaper walls, I squatted on the ceiling
watching intently as the children ate their own flesh.