DO PARANOID ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC DICKS?


Do Paranoid Androids Dream of Electric Dicks?

By

Louise M. Hart

A week ago…

 

I don’t know what I do

Or don’t think

My thoughts are peasants

Revolting

In a hollow pit of consciousness

Guarded

By agents of truth

 

My eyes burn like cigarettes

Concealing my tears

Like smokescreens

Before ideas

Ripped

From indiscrete tongues

 

My pain is as bespoken

As my heart

Bleeding shamefully

Into a world of words

That should remain

Unspoken

And hidden

Like the existence

Of alternate universes

 

My big mouth

Strikes

Again

And like Morrissey

On an amphetamine trip

To writer’s hell

Reading reviews of his latest book

I am swallowed by solid earth

And realise that I am still ill

 

The hospital is no longer

A movie trailer

Blade Runner is terminated

Like reels of my celestial self

Today the Sound of Melancholia

And music

Is screened throughout

My self-projected realm

 

One day, “I’ll be back”

In my delusory spacecraft

Gathering crazy diamonds

Of insight

Beneath my silly poet’s hat

 

But for now…

Whiskers on kittens

Scratch

Until I hurt

So much

I laugh

 

Never fear pain. Claim it and then, let go. Write a poem, paint a picture. Creativity sooths the soul and changes the world.

 

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And the Words Go On


And the Words Go On

By

Louise M. Hart

Welcome to my relapse

It takes the form of a serpent

Vomiting vowels and consonants

From a mouth it does not trust

Which sizzle in its throat

Like acid from a burning gut

Words that should be cast out

Like Eve’s rotten apple

To vanish into trampled earth

Like vile obstructive dust

 

I cough up narratives like phlegm

My toxic tongue vibrates with boredom

Licking gasping cracks

Where hearts should lie

A rimming echo of the mind

That cannot control it

Servant to thought’s self-destructive thrusts

 

Why does my mind beckon torment?

When all around there are none

Torment is my only friend

Constant companion in all weathers

For whilst fairer faces look away

Afraid that perceiving might lead to wrinkles

Subjectivity must always have its say

 

Thus, I shall never again rent my soul

It is better to exist alone

Than be every woman to no one every day