The rhapsody of the melodious, paralyzingly lonely dingle-berry beetle

The crunching correlative efforts of the twin
sales reps descends upon my cranium with the force
of a horny harpy busting out sickeningly personal
poems scribed in the dim buzz of sepia culture and
spewed in the nearness of an audience equally appalled
and inspired, trying to take success as it comes but the
breadth of their muse’s ability to conspire lexical wonder
is completely dependent on time spend worshipping
and avoiding consonant delving into shoddy apartment
complexes filled to the door with parasitic babysitters
quitting meth and owning a dignified sense of self-deprecation
mixed with manic depression in a cocktail of 21st
century human conditioning, satan broods on the porch of a
dingy pier 1 imports and sulks while waiting for
his mom to finish shopping and combust the caravan to return
home, an ambiance of combined lashing and loving, where
the emotion’s turns and capriciousness are dictated by
rage filled sojourns into blind frustration and the venting
of tense muscles upon a child as the steam from a mishandled
coffee machine brews in silence until hissing acrimoniously
at its delayed release, the feeling of being a derivative of
cliches bent upon spinning out of control when the mass
opinion is that to truly gain control one must lose all, simultaneously
discrediting investors of chaos with critiques of anathema and
accursed silence borne between the shoulders of a thinning hair
maiden whose weeping trickles down her husband’s chest and plods
against toes unwilling to accept the blunt blood sacrifice of all
mothers, she catalogues spitting and her idealistic sense of
marriage in a journal stained with nail shards, crumpled eyelash
cinders and the beauteous liquid of lustful desire splayed on the
dog-eared corners of each page, hallucinations of a blustering
Tom Hanks urinating in our front yard calls for shotgun shell
depletion and a night-time sprint onto hardwood clanging
and intentions to implode a soul by sheer willpower, we
return to bed with sweating heads and shaking pupils rotten
to the apple’s core of demented conversation, I shake you violently
when you return to your book on freakonomics and
slap your cheeks with my words that mean nothing to all but
something to one, and the moon adds its input with a chilling
glare to marinate the presence of white-noise slouching from
under the bed and holding fireside chats in our hearts, where emotion
is seen but never heard, you reply with a cavity of caveats and no form of
expression but staring directly between my eyebrows with
a murderous gaze of non-action, virulently peaceful you
clench down with tea-stained teeth on a soul so enthralled
in thrashing that it ignores your pulse and overexerts, and even
upon looking down at your collapsed form with
eyes swimming disabled and a physique of
body over mental mutiny, I can’t help but feel that
familiar discharge of negativity that leaps
from my chest to each nerve, like a disease of the mind
I look down for a minute’s passing
and know that the cure has perished