Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The past is hunting me.

The past is hunting me.

Blooms in my old room

like a snail.

It leaves cum smears

on the mattress.

Feasts on fallen

lint from my navel.

Redecorates and makes use

of every stained corner.

It follows me to work

like a ratted dog.

Plops itself at my

desk and answers

the phone. Lapps

at the ear piece

and gobbles the wax

I left behind. Digests

slow allowing for time

to become familiar.

Its presence here makes

me uneasy. The gilded horses

in my stomach prance

up and down up

and down (an E ticket

ride) as the slide

show in my head

introduces the next freak.

The music they play here

is frightening.

Poem and photo copyright Robert P. Langdon

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