Bedbugs XII

Bedbugs XII






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Space can be a prison just as much as this room. Broken clocks
keep better time than the measurement of metal she relies upon,
opening the floodgates and the eardrums to hear what seems to be
a choir singing. Primary colors washed out, literally pulled
from their maker, left alone in the grey/blue lit hallway, making
mournful noises two inches above the floor. I can see
it through the walls and it scares me. Fillings made of
wood are complimentary patterns of the same song. The Spring
garden she thought up only has enough room for one.
Silver fractures with a knob on the end, parties full of
slick puppets with nothing guiding them. I had to
scale the wall of the iron building at zero hour just
to get in. Take her home already, I'd been asked. When inside
the splinter carraige, it's easy to be cut as deep
as it was in high school. Effortless. Glowing a sort of orange
tone in unmeasured emotion, I can feel everything winding
down. Where did its energy go? Sapped by Routine Thieves
with tubing that goes right under the fingernails.
What else can I tell you, the rest of the house is empty; make
no mistake, it's yours.







Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:






-teeming with energy represented with green and yellow
-wind makes it rustle back and forth
-waiting at the end of the bridge
-sixteen degrees
-singing to me once more
-working in a box
-love the silence between sounds


-Adam Barnick
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