|The Way Down by WH|
Point - a head twisted backwards,
gazing with upside-down eyes
at the rainy world, a tightly woven
madness that is interrupted at the moment
of release, beauty recovered
but broken before experienced - an acorn
crushed by a car wheel - the treacherous and
oblivious - a candle looked at but never lit.
It is the time of a baby’s teething, when pain drools out in
a flooding aftermath of unnameable agony.
This is the child who
has no use for the outside world. This is me curled into
a dull surrender - unsure if there is a next move,
if there will be a time when I can rid myself of the bile
filling my belly - the corporate pimps and sluts, the self-
important money-makers, the big little people,
these devil’s minions who try to bury me in their fear
and their soulless security, panting at my doorstep
with their sewn-on smiles and breath
of fresh infant’s blood.