Deeper Breathing

Deeper breathing. Inhaling the taste of the gothic night. Feeling the pulse of
dark's reign chained to the pain of insomnias monotonous. Listening to the
tickling of the clock. Scaring the piss out of me with sanctimonious hymns.
Screaming, "goodnight, Irene." Now bleeding from the pen my evidentiary  
waste of twisting the sheets as the devil comes over me. In my Jiminy Cricket
suit with a collection of thingamabobs to add to my sounding bars, dripping from
my cock's tureen,