M is for Mystery

M is for Mystery,
or so my blind psychobabble tells me,
with its ivory chattering a chorus of static and bells in my ear.
Behind my eyes is a giant clock with hands,
hands,
HANDS MADE OF EBONY,
ticking to the heartbeat of a dead little boy now seven years old for the twelth time in a row,
before iron and carnage and incantations of the last judgements!
And he is taken away,
by bells and by static and you have drowned him in oil and in blood.
And with the coppery crimson now staining his teeth he is smiling forever from the void of my darkest mind.

E is for Enigma,
according to the girl I was kissing in a nightclub a year ago,
with her hopeless whimsy and clinical Smirnoff 'pint'.
And beyond her whispered shouting is madness,
madness,
Madness looking for a home in the hearts of the young and the minds of the weak now drinking away tonight's prospects,
before doubled vision and basslines and passionate tornados!
And they are stripped away,
thrown in to tantric motion amidst lights that are electric and alive.
And in the chaotic whirlwind they smile forever from their voretx of hive-mind desires.