This passage, is a voice in omen
fortuitous with its boast set bold,
an unhinged sad fragment
of variegated wondering hopes
from the madness I have seen manifest
in the dark magic of nighttime life.
I feel an itch, inward, a burn
deeper than the stygian Dante pit
and it begs for release
this, thing, a part of me, living
organic and alive.
I inhale it steals breath.
I eat myself hungered by its leach.
No company satisfies
though the orgasmic release
is an equation of what will be, when it must,
self-purged by urination and defecation
or an oral released explosion
a self-actuated pyroclastic surge.
If I could sever this timorous gore
from my innards I would.
Release the pressure on my head
my heart, my loins, a deep empty void
preferred to a tentacled fist
whose screams I mimic
by waking life statements typed.
I see fragmented pieces grounded,
rolling as dice, glimpses of words
progressing in the dream soup.
Molecules attaching to engorge,
smashing into plotted characters
traveling through storied lines.
Contraction! Seizure accepted, to birth.
A great adventure is about to begin.