Comb, water, desk, morning

Clutter mind.
Tapered ears.
Mended mouth.
Crooked nose.

My eyes are like those ancient zeppelins, floating majestic, waiting to burst.

Only after it hurts can I write.
My mind clutter falls out onto the page. My tapered ears rip open old wounds. My mended mouth chews through. My nose--well, that's my nose.

You breathe to wait and you wait for nothing. Your face is in black and white. Your toes are constantly on point. Your crotch is a beating living piece of coal. Your soul is squeezed until all the liquor runs into your brain. Water passes through without harming a cell. Smoke pulls through the lungs and out the posterior. You stare at the clock and state that it will never happen again. Yet you can't write. You can't write without it. You can't live--and then you hold your breath. You don't realize how important that song is until you hear it for the fifth, sixth time. You pass out. Everything falls back into place. You wake up tommorow and start over.