Delirium

It fires in the vacancy of my stomach,

beginning like an unexpected blow . . .

then creeping like an illness to sit on my chest –

prickling at my shoulders.

It prowls upwards and downwards,

leaving a trail of boils

I’ll have to tend to later.

I sense it,

in the crinckles between my brows –

streaked with sweat . . .

In the ringing of my ears –

an ironically silent torture . . .

In the heavy pulsing of my head,

where my ponytail starts . . .

I suffer this,

when names feed off my brain tissue;

I’m slightly conscious of their fading.

I’ve known it especially

in the winter blues of my walls –

four encasing me,

or is it three

or five . . .

they look as if they’re confused and dizzy,

constantly spinning

constantly laughing in delirium

at the loneliness that stresses me

and my hush lipped friends.

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