Open my box, dear
adversary, and assess its contents.
Scribble the
imperfections in your crude clipboard and vomit them out to all, like a nauseous
choirmaster. You are sick, not I.
This room, pure white (save the blue bruise of your presence),
is my afterlife. When
you are here, you interrupt it like a cough in a funeral, a man spilling his mouthy
bucket of phlegm everywhere he speaks. When you leave, I am alone with the loud
tolls of the clock on the wall sending quaking tremors through my ears as I
lay, waiting for your slimy hand to grip my door and enter again.
But how I love the
scent of the ladies entering my room, wheeling in their gorgeous goblets of heaven
and wielding syringes like tiny swords. Each day they fill my body with needles. I am their happy pincushion. The swords bring me pleasure no lover
can, as I drift in space and float to the time kept by that clanging clock:
tick-tock
tick-tock
tick-tock
Until the loud knock
of my enemy wakes me again.