Various Things Written on Scraps of Paper

What follows is a housecleaning of sorts.  I jot ideas down on paper.  Sometimes the ideas form the start of a poem, other times they're simply nothing more than a convoluted mess.  From time to time I'll keep them in a safe place.  To withdraw when ideas cease to fly.  Thankfully this doesn't happen too often.  The folders are too filled and instead of tossing these scraps of jotted and graffiti filled and used up sheets of computer paper with barely decipherable ink blots and scratch from hands, I decided to combine them here, and let the be what the may be.  They were all written in roughly a few days time, so they may seem connected, but they're not.  They're all separated from each other, yet I can see, if you feel they fit, as I can somewhat see that too, to a point.  Anyhow it was bothering me, because I was about to throw them out, I just never saw myself using these lines and again, I didn't feel like running out to be any new folders right now, I will, I always do, but just didn't feel like it for these pieces of unwanted leftovers, never making the cut, never cared about enough to gain a family of their own.  So in this here, I relieve my guilt, and create a group home.  Of unwanted words, alone, yet now alone together.  It figures, the explanation would be longer than the scribbled words themselves. 

Within my mind exists a sometimes vast, some days barren domain.  For strings of time affixed others may find me to be.  That’s if, others knew where to find me.

Locked, inside prison, dungeon and/or occasional crypt.  Four walls, a ceiling and a floor, carpeting from side to side, almost new coats of eggshell white.  Treatments but a decade dead, windows the only connect, from what’s inside and what’s beyond the head. 

Vascular, molecular, cellular suffocate cost.  Angular, modular, adaptable sloth, conforming to the iso-view, dictated to the soul, within moments lost.  Only vaguely are the recollections, no place can the tindersticks be found, not on the floor, beneath the toes, not in the crevices between wall and bed; to where the carpet’s close, where the industrial needles dwell, in that place, only inches from the path to Hell.

Valance drawn too often now

Drapes bedazzled by a shadow crossed

Blinds fold up and down, without strings they’ll have their way

Up slit the moving filter

Air whisks fresh and clean.  Crisp, like sharp pricks done before, just clear, soluble, without the reddish flood.  The only thing, standing; the only barrier now is flesh.