The RackA Poem by James William DyerThe First Timne, when I was young, a lover left me, I sank into deep withdrawal. I thought of that today, reflecting on how long it took to manage my intake, among other things.Cold plaster walls entomb me. A comatose of snow descends outside My bones. . . . .riddled with antholes .Hollow Pimples. On calcium white stalks That swarm with tickling life. Cold draft through anthill holes through bones Whistling right down to the marrow. Your last pinprick whisper goodbye through the receiver holes of the old rotary dialtone Phone in my heart.........................................receding the last grains of morphine.................. receding (a scattering of sand through my heart). The venom sprawled right into my sheets, a nightmare prison of suffocating white balloons around my head, tucked under my elbows, and finally thrown off the Bed to reveal the bare, crippling meat of this paradox: (kicking legs! screaming knees! squalling stomach! Venom sweat! Lying fly-tongue! Dry meat heart! Tribal temples...pounding! Broken mirrors of guilt...cutting! different angles across my heart Frozen, empty lungs....rattling!: The chamber where I vent my soul in menthol that doesn't help. Your gone your gone your gone your gone. And all my loves are gone. And all my dearest friends are gone. And half my family's gone. And....and....and) I hum my prisms into the pillow. A ganglia of nerves throughout my skin....convulsing in electric jellyfish spasm I hiccup my legs, shift the folded pockets of air and huddle beneath my ratty blanket. I feel your glacier of finality Melting through the topology of my brain Scouring me out of all the Small channels of brain tissue leaving behind a little nub of hollow bone the pocket of a skull. the huddle of bones on a matress where we used to beat our dreams in 2. © 2012 James William DyerAuthor's Note
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Added on November 15, 2012Last Updated on November 15, 2012 Tags: addiction, poverty, seperation, love, hurt, agony, sick, withdrawal, morphine, drugs, pain, loss, grief, dissillusionment, sorrow, mistaken thoughtline AuthorJames William DyerBliss, MIAboutI began writing when I was in the fourth or fifth grade. We were extremely poor and my mother had purchased an old typewriter from a yard sale for me, tired of trying to decipher my mangled handrwitin.. more..Writing
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