and I scrawled on a burned and dirty cupboard
with a dip pen and thick black ink.
My charcoal computer played the manipulative elk tongue
(like the one moaning in the road)
gently filling an unnecessary space
and slowly unlatching the gate to a watery wave.
No tears though.
It hated my tone.
Peter Silberman howled in my good ear
about hospitals and corrupted relationships
overflowing with sourness
and a sense of handicapped love,
I allowed my sneaky subconscious
to pick the melancholy music.
I was scratching away the words of my father
but about my mother, with my watermelon eyes.
Brittle chunks of keyboards snapped at me
And I wished you could feel my inky and satisfied hands.
They'd eat yours, spreading the darkness,
And maybe you'd understand me
cause it's all I've ever wanted, babe.
Very good.
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