The floorboards rotate propeller-like
spinning on spindles of doped-up drowsiness.
Ceilings lunge and walls cough up their darkness.
Living inside is like a deer on the highway
only our headlights are 60 watt halogen, and
we turn them on and off with the TV.
I’m a puppet getting felt, hand up my ass.
My head is December.
December, the coldest month.
Never mind mind-numbing February–
spring is too soon for its plastic ‘r’ to bite.
And January is warm with presents and new year’s kisses.
December is the witches tit,
wringing a lonely despair from the sponge of our emotions.
Plus, I’m always sick in December.
This year she has come too soon.
It’s like December reached back and bitch-slapped October,
saying “Get back you pushover! Even Halloween can’t save you now!”
And meanwhile my sinuses wrinkle into dried husks,
while simultaneously gushing thick sticky brain-melt.
And my head is a caged animal, throwing itself at the glass walls of my skull.
And my back and arms and stomachÂ… sore as December.
Crushed under a blanket of snow,
filled with the dread that only
the beginning of the end can bring.