Anxious Tangents

                                                        You look anxious:
Without feet,
Without a mouth,
Without motive to move you,
Without omission to speak.
Tranquil and easy
Is a slumber for a mind’s eye.
To be ignorant is bliss,
To harbour knowledge is resigned.
I trace your hand
With chapped lips;
Upon them both we both have stains,
As we both readily circle the drain,
We are far more eager than borrowed sticks.
Pull me out,
with clumps of hair,
Just dead cells to be refused-
We are but recycled men;
Trash and treasure reused.
Bukowski, oh Bukowski,
He was one of your favourites, yes?
“he’s got me, he’s got me”
And you say I pin-hole myself at best?
Guilt, sour guilt
Writhes and boils your veins,
But mine are filled with dust
A disease that has left me lame.
                                                  I look so anxious now
With no mouth,
No feet,
Not motivation, or so
To speak-
This is coercion,
Really, at best,
A foully sentiment for an empty breast.
For now
I am but your swollen hands
And my chapped lips
Upon unsteady land,
In a bed made with punishment,
i find little rest.