The Medium’s Hour

This is what they’ve done, and it won’t be
be the last, for they’ve pulled me from my coffin
of filth like a vampire with a cat’s tongue and
parched desire for water and killing tar.
Was it enough to have a decent slumber and
allow eggshell blue tablets to knock me into a
coma? Just once would I love the purple bags
of sand lifted from my lids.
To not wake up to the humid afternoon,
to start the day at dawn and sip blonde coffee
as any normal person. The exploding clouds
of hazelnut desire such a routine.
Instead I’m left with spirits that shoot up
and call me from the edge of the universe.
If only there were a way to keep them inside
crystal orbs to mute their cries.
Instead they hang around the silence,
a quietness more massive and violent than
Jupiter’s red storm. Why the ghosts can’t
come at three in the afternoon, I’ll never know.
With them come different thoughts,
such as death’s blanket, selected memories
and God’s rejections. Furthermore, they pace
the cold floors and rub their eyes.
I believe the worst part about two a.m.
is how it all feels like a tape fast-forwarded
and paused simultaneously. Bad tracking,
bundled strips of film and nonstop loops.
Nevertheless, innovation can be found
in its static and the haunting souls deliver
a mind full of clarity through fog. I call it the
beacon of absolute disarray.
Where those who are lost in the clutter,
the endless caverns and spiral staircases find
a reason. It’s the same epiphany drunks
have when nobody takes them home.
Alone, trapped in a still whirlpool,
the ghastly tap the table three times when
only two were called for. They curl up and
collapse like abandoned buildings and ships.
Across the skyline, over cities and farmhouses,
sorcerers reach their arms out to become the
darkness. They are the darkness, whispering
spells from their lips.
The stakes have been taken back,
the fire at their feet, matches struck and butane
dreams run rampant. Much so as a monster
hiding behind evil pines.
Streets, those empty, paved maps,
they welcome wandering crooks with hooks
as sinister as the devil’s looks. Pale faces on
walls make subtle sounds.
And it’s always I, the medium, who documents
such things and lives to tell the tale. My god,
I should be thankful the moon wasn’t full this
time around.
09.01.16
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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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