Hear buried deep.
Separation anxiety sharpened on a guillotine devolution.
Head buried, twenty feet, twenty years, twenty times, twenty lives deep.
What the holy head rollers. Blowin’ shit up be pretty ‘til you run out of gunpowder and someone gets hurt.
Head buried in twenty feet of concrete who knows where. A foundation dug out over twenty years with nothing but nails. Twenty fingers frayed. A straight line of nothing. A whole note curdled.
BPAD+ to blame. The same shame stains every one of those twenty years. Words gone gutted. Words like a cracker – all zip and zap and bluster – gone in just a sec without even a lick of thunder.
“Driftwords”
The best part of the mind – the living part, not the thinking part – washed up and locked up. The whole note curdled like old milk heated past the sell-by date. The best part of the brain locked up. The key swallowed, the free-thinking flow swallowed, the spark swallowed. The zip and zap. Swallowed.
A slow-mo lobotomy twenty years in the making – one grey matter at a time.