I can feel the beat of a what could be a great dance move begin

as the vibrations start

and despite what the Beach Boys proclaimed in

they are not good,

in fact for the Time they nestle in my bones,

and spread out across the landscape,

the battle ground with flags and basecamps

bombarding  my body,

the juddering, static charge of small tactical grenades

going off deep inside me but with the added,

sheer galling bonus of that it only affects those

who see me weeping on the bed,

and those who hear me whisper to myself

as I lean against the concrete wall, white marker

pinned to every possible piece of breathing skin

and with cigarette poked out of the left crevice

of my mouth…

please put the damn bullet in me now,

for this shit is killing me.

 

The pain of days

that has slowly dragged me down

to kicking level,

the audacity of the screaming down my ears

reserved for a first wife’s dictorial abuse

and the unseen jackhammer

that has haunted my every move

since I was seventeen and before if my friends

from school are right,

I have grown used to.

Sure it fucking hurts, why would it not,

but the vibrations,

the slow build up of non physical exercise,

the orders of a drill sergeant who gets off

on the look of sweat pouring down the face

of the new recruit and the torment

etched upon their young pre voluntary release

young faces,

that I can live without.

 

Take me out of this I have to beg…

 

Beg? It’s more like the imploring of those who

face torture, please no more, let this

lewdness, the absurdity of my nauseous bones wanting

to escape the very skin they nestle under

and let the pulsating madness stop,

as I tremble upon the floor

as the spider contemplates

spinning its web around me.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015