Twilight Hysteria, Pt. I

She slept soundly on a bed of cigarette ashes and regrets
that shuddered at the slightest hint of sky or the sound of a clock
or a searching hand
 
And when it rained, her eyes clamped shut, her stitches opened
and sweat dripped down like molasses
spelling out letters in languid procession---
One
by
 
One o'clock: her hands quivered
glass shattered below
and spread with curious elegance
shimmering with shameless pretension
vomiting vodka and desperation
at her feet, groveling, nipping at her sanity while
Nicotine and Chanel no. 5
trailed behind like a bitter memory
 
nipping at her heels..
 
The television screen blared
with self-righteous fury, flashing lies
in Technicolor grandeur:
Wide-eyed and acid-tongued plaster-skinned
Insanity salesmen,
offering quick fixes and fruit mixers
for a mere nineteen-ninety-nine
brain cells.
 
And the moon cried, It's a fine time for slime
And she danced herself out of her skin
on a dance floor of spilled wine and linoleum tiles
 
(Tears threatened, but lacked a motive)
 
Mind was no matter, it was shut tight inside the cupboard
guarded by daydreams and maggots, while madness
ripped her innards to shreds
and said, "Lady, check your problems at the door,"
with an urgent rapping on her skull, and a peculiar echo.
"The show must go on," urged the Fish-tailed,
Fire-Eating Swamp-Thing. Cue departure:
Sanity sauntered off left of stage
in a single-file line with Prozac
smuggled in their suitcases.