The T
I awoke abruptly in a cold, metallic cylinderTo the scent of bitter herbs and the harsh ringing
Of a silver lid forced ajar from above me.
A white hand traces the chill, nocturnal,
Spherical floor, and like an amused rapist
Lifts and pulls me from my thin apparatus.
My coarse eyes cannot adjust to light,
A dull flame humming beneath
A portly whistling woman.
A long, white cord is evoked,
Carelessly torn from a patch
In my tender back.
I feel wet...I think I'm an octopus...
The fluid is an inky black, yet
Curiously sweet.
Steadily the steam emanates from my bath
As I steep drowsily... I hear talk of milk-
Then nothing.
Poetry by Lazarus Knix
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Written on 2010-01-12 at 05:02
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