Hoarding the Brain
By Ray Succre
  

The whip whereby her utters snap is old, leathery,
trickle-fed red from bits of my opinion. 

Ticks in one's pillow, how to describe her,
yes, and soft as the parishioner when in doubt,
while sharp as earthcrust striking its opponent plate. 

I let her loose, she hates and tells,
so I reign her in, she begins to eat into my gloom. 

She is negative intellect,
brought my office into disrepute,
and it was choice that fucked her up princely;
smarts and options gave her a labor-back,
a mind like a sweet across the world palate. 

She beats the heads of a beating average.
I am this average—my wisdom is common,
my urges important, I am no anomalist;
my things are mine. 

She gets into me with cruel remark.
She aims I should adopt her and start. 

She is negative intellect,
the death whose tongue is lipped in gold,
the death who is desire,
snorts in comfort with knowledge for the sway.

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Coconut, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  He tries hard.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com