It’s Madness

Originally an imitation of Geoffrey Brock’s “Abstraction” but after several revisions it’s now less an imitation and more an inspiration.

It’s like the sensation of falling,

like slinking down the stairs while

moving too fast, both palms gripping the walls

of a mug brimming with tea, the liquid a sloshing,

stormy ocean scenting its coasts with Earl Grey

instead of salt, disgruntled fish firing foamy bubbles

that froth on the surface as the strange warmth

of their waters spill over and waste into the carpeted steps. Eventually

you catch yourself at the base of the stairs where a couch

lies in repose; she asks to be painted

like one of your French girls, but you’ve forgotten your brushes

in another time. Out of breath, a small dose

of adrenaline still hissing in your knees, urging

you forward, faster like the shadow of your inevitable

death is at the top of the stairs, like the fish in the ocean

in you hands will jump up and bite you if you take a sip

without first sitting down, you start walking

again, your pace calmer yet no less urgent. You lay on the couch

not intending to sleep but knowing you will anyway.

            The mug you’ve placed on the coffee table will cool, the fish

                        will die, the ocean will settle and become tea again, and the table

                                    will be faintly puzzled as to the sudden weight placed on its face

                                                before curling into itself and disanimating.


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