poetry of the Dark, Erotic, Violent, Sacreligious & Macabre

Fiction

Musings of a Writer, Blocked

 

I’m not as intelligent as I used to be

 

somewhere, somehow, my brain

fell off the grid of post-independence,

now I’m influenced by the vast roaches

inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,

though they call to me, whisper my name

their shame becomes all of what I used to be;

 

the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation

they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,

not for water, but for company, companionship,

someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their

whimsical little petals now weltering beneath

the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;

 

to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the

dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those

tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded

that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-

in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,

soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;

 

still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again


clinical depressant

 

 chainsaw. . .

the chainsaw tends to jam as

my wife’s head is stubborn at times,

but today I succeeded,

I tell the therapist behind an expression of regret,

and a cigarette I five fingered from the ashtray from the previous session.

and the coffee smells like day old coffee grinds

but taste freshly brewed though, lacking sugar, that caramel look.

the therapist asks why I would even dare put a chainsaw to my wife’s head?

I didn’t have bananas in my cornflakes, I admitted without being charged.

So it’s her fault?  The therapist assumes.

I tell him that the lady now sitting next to me,

who was sitting next to me earlier out in the lobby,

has been bumming a cigarette from me since day 37,

since it was my wife who suggested I see a therapist to help with my depression.

So it’s her fault, then?  The therapist redirects.

I shake my head, bite my lip, and toss the cigarette into my coffee cup;

the cigarette makes a fizzing sound

like the chainsaw now sitting beside my wife’s stubborn head.

I shiver, not because in the manner I killed her in,

but because of the bloody shit I got to go home and clean up!

the therapist scratches his shiny head before taking pity on me.

he refills my placebo pills in a new prescription.

Same time, next week?  He says.  I nod.

and nothing is resolved, as usual.