spinning fast enough
to shred tendons like
rope left cliffside after a
a fatal equipment failure
the blades of the open fan
speak some awful temptation
to stick my fingers in
after the tendons, the bones
would be treated like toothpicks
in a hydraulic press
the pain would be immense
you would pass out
awake to more pain
but at least it would be a sensation
occasionally, I fear that when I
close the hood on that fan
I’ll actually do it; the blood
would turn the outside of the fan
into a crimson blowhole
spewing blood and effluvia of calcium
down from the third floor.
it’s a neurosis, a tic in a sense, borne of a heart
numbed in its romantic sensibilities
even with a pounding systolic humanism.
a heart that knows love so well,
that it sometimes
envisions the hand
churning through those blurred fan blades
dumping human fertilizer onto the flowerbeds
down below my kitchen window.
*I often find myself laughing at myself for all the weird little neuroses that swim around the fishbowl of my head. Most of them just remain haunting looped thought patterns that make me feel crazier than any of you might realize, a sociopath of sensitivity in some odd way. So, I decided I’ll write about some of them and put them into a series of poems, thus the name ‘the neuroses’, which was partially inspired by Erik Satie’s “Gymnopedes”.