things written in red ink

how long can you chase
the feeling of that 
odd ball of soiled
erstwhile cotton
riding a roller-coaster

up and down
down and up
sideways
either ways
neither ways
going nowhere
scraping everywhere

don't you just wish
you could
thrust your hand
inside your mouth
deep down
your throat
and grab
the slimy end
of this cotton ball

and tug
tug hard
make it come undone
unfurled
unraveled

and then pull
purge yourself
from its
spidery web threads

pull it out gently
inch by inch

can you feel the space
that new found space
in the hollow of your abdomen
and the cavity of your chest

as the threads give way
as they make way
for the fresh air to rush in
for the sun-rays to shine in

don't you just wish
you could split yourself
open
down the middle
and air out

inside out
this old museum
that you have been curating
guarded by cages of your ribs
and breast plates
love and hate
love and hate

don't you just wish
that you could unclog
yourself
of this
cotton ball
which has rolled all over
and around a lot
and yet has gathered all the moss
the moss of memories
the moss of the number of times
you have had to bury yourself
the moss of the number of times
you have taken the pyre

the moss of all the times you remember
the moss of all the times you can't forget
the moss
the moss of loss
a choking mass
the moss of
broken mirrors
and one way
see through window glass

don't you just wish
to finally slay
all that
which has
slayed your
libido
your hunger your thirst
all that has robbed you
of your throb
and beats
and rhythmic feet

don't you just wish

don't you just wish
that the misery of the burned out synapses
and the short-circuited nerve endings
would finally come to an end

the tingles
the shudders
the surprises
the shocks
the human
that you once were
now parading around 
as indifferent

don't you wish
all that would just stop

the cotton ball
the moss of loss
don't you just wish
all that would
just stop