I have a thunder in my head, laughing like acrid angel bluff. I call it out and tell the seasons what they want to hear: a mimic, a murmur a collective repetition. And still the paint fans from my lips. Iridescence permits me to speak in volumes of how much I have destroyed in myself to survive light enough to float For if heavy im sunk and bloating, torn and loose like chum in a wasted tool shed, I am irrelevant mass mounted and decaying within a network that holds no truth. Flotation is my constant, a undulating mass, I will continue a boundless existence above my head, above the trees, looking down as I burn faces out of my treasure box, and hunt down the one that ill rejuvenate and chrome, till I inhabit their entrails, a secret cove away, in the bosom, becoming their pulse. I have a thunder in my head, my fingers numb and retarded in this light that I refuse to understand. But the rain speaks a relevant chord of prophecy and I smiled today when the sky opened up and gave its signal, to vanish and fuck back the scars and kill out the lights, funnel my dark and tease it with plight.
Ruinous, I am today, unfolding and rebounding within the confines of bone, marrow. A vain pops slowly between my knuckles. I have a thunder in me, spreading silk and molten. it’s the brink of a war I have indulged in countless times: a dreaming brain gone wild with aguish, unable to break the cage but humming slighting above, enough to challenge its prey.
I have a thunder in my head and I refuse to fix the leak.