:: Smoke-choked closet ::

I feel curiously strangled,
When I laugh;
It’s like my soul doesn’t want to
Doesn’t care to
Can’t bear to
Erupt into that sort of cheap humour.

It’s a clown-faced doll that weeps
Or a clot of a tumour that keeps
Haunting, taunting me.

I have been robbed, it seems
Of my ability for small pleasures –
It’s all very difficult now, to bow
To the mirthless faces slashed with smiles;
Stop your air-kisses, I’m listless,
I bleed above my brows
When I laugh.

I don’t care to entertain, ascertain,
How you find my social health,
I have no wealth when I laugh,
You don’t make me rich – here and here,
I hear you knocking – you’re mocking
With that leer.

And when you laugh,
Perhaps you rumble inside
Or you grumble despite
That slash – a gash – yellow sash
On your face.

Oh we learn, how we learn
To laugh like that mad nettle that stings
We laugh at little things,
Oh how we laugh.

***

Madonna is the goddess of Caprice, I thought to myself irrelevantly as I sipped my wine. You're right though. I've fallen off the orbit; I am extinguished by a distant starquake. The music became torturous octaves of lyrical madness after a while, and my tongue was completely numbed to the taste of the wine.

3.09. Why why why. Fuck me sideways, Father Time, and get me out of here.

***

I'm still in fragments. My thoughts, my logic, my strength. They are all over the place today. Where are you? Are your wires shot too?