Claustrophobic Little Boy


In a room without an identity
the past is pasted on the walls
as anxiety pours into nuerasthenia.
The protean puppeteers are guilty
of sending chemical impulses, in the quiet

hope is hidden, the strain-shine
of stripped inspiration. The plastic
ashes offer fresh motification and
put the muffled drops of blood
into memory of organized accidents.
In the here and now I

am locked on patterns. When did I
start getting soulless?

History wafting up the
years, is it possible to keep control?

Hiroshima is harder than ever
to grip, insomnia

wraps up all attempts to gain
sense of the situation, that grinding
nowhere. Spoonfuls of ankles and
adaptations of arms to form a
Frankenstein of mistakes that
might be too much to digest, run

back to bed.
Wake up to CNN ticker streaming
49 killed along Pakistan border.

Playing cards to wash off
the exhaustion.

Grit is my
room
and it has banished guilt. I
loathe the transparent
ceiling,
can't help but watch the flesh
creep through the cracks.

~

words: Tyler Cobb, Minnesota (The Relapse)
image: Tammy Ho, HongKong (homepage)

another blueprintreview cracks-in-the-wall-poem:
Bipolar