Here's where it itches Where it penetrates deep And leaves a puckered scar upon the skin Exposed to all the trysts and trials Of life's saintly little caresses and devilish little licks Prickly, unholy, Sweeeeeeeeeeet. . . . . Prayers are made here, and recanted And squeezed from the tongue until the buds crumple dryly and the Words fall dead * * * And I sit upon the bed Inside my head Is a TICK TICK TICK A time bomb, maybe TICK TICK TICK Or a monstrous grandfather clock Counting out the moments and momentos of the generation A generation Growing too large in itself Stretching its skin so taut Strettttttttttttttccccccccccchhhhhhhing so tight Until baby blue veins float up just below the gossamer skin Like long skinny buoys * * * And I sit upon the bed Inside my head Is an irrepressible, unignorable High-pitched scream ^^I've heard this song already I've heard this fucking song so many times Why can't they fucking play something else !!!^^ My lips mimic speech, That is (i.e.) to say my teeth catch my lip in an Approximation of the f in fucking But there's no sound No whimper no change The same song . . . * * * Here's where it itches Here's wherd I'd like to scratch until My nails burrow into the flesh until The red blood cakes under the nails Painted with cracked red polish I dig into myself To find the source of the Goddamn itch (!) but all I find Is me and me and me And the donut I ate last week * * * Snicker, if you will * * * And I break the split-ends off a strand Of red hair and blow it into the ozone As a means (of course) of relieving (Reliving?) The pressure of the ever-expanding 20 year sense Of and confusion over who I am A sense and confusion echoing in every TICK TICK TICK Of the time bomb TICK TICK TICK Of that grandfather clock * * * Freudian fantasies are hazes in my brain About breaking the layer of the sky About clawing a hole right to China About taking that second hand of that Grandfather clock and slicing deep, yelling ^^Here, heeeeeeeeere's where it itches!^^ And the blood (hot and feverish) would rush in a gush And inside I would not be so hot and bothered and hindered and hot So what do I do . . . what to do? * * * Drown in thick layers of starchy torts and creamy icings Maybe never eat again and be called nice words (for a change) Like Beautiful and Sexy Maybe find comfort in being pounded into like some 99c Whore Maybe reach out and grate my tongue along a woman's teeth Just do anything not to hear that same (goddamn!) song That same fucking song one more time And find a way to Scratch so hard that It won't itch anymore Scratch the bone, and sleep .
Reason for writing:
3 generations: boomers, mine, and this SpiceGirl-Hanson-Dawson's
Creek-Leo-JustStartingCollege Generation.com. More importantly,
what do *you* think it means?
Birth sign: Not entered
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