Young Writers Society

R.E.M.
Spinning nightmares have never
been gashed by sunlight,
because I cannot catch.

My father has never taught me,
and each young man
likes my tongue and nothing more.

Oh, I have a friend.
Of course.
But her echoes are like lace upon my cotton.

Each morning it is early,
my eyelashes will not open.
The bed is riper than I wanted.

It reminds me of raspberry rinds,
because I eat nothing whole.
I find creamingsodavomit spatters between the sheets.

The sour knife in my intestines
is colder than they are,
the gentlemen who frequent my room

so unfrequently,
then rip the watch off my wrist.
I told them I was not ready.

I told them I hate what they will find,
and they relent. Yet,
my fingers screech.

Humiliating. I am capable of it all.
I can jump from anything
and into anything.

(Into nothing). Are my sockets bare?
They never stare into my eyes,
like an unkind zombie.

Never will we meet a prophet,
so we cry into the table salt,
and slit our foreheads.

Then the sea gulps against the black cliffs,
and I gulp all night.
Until my head swallows itself.
written: Friday 5th January 2007, 1:01am.