Scripture on the walls
and little flecks of blood and phlegm
to punctuate it. Ammonia scents the air
with the spray from an automatic air freshener
to change things up a bit.
Old cigarettes and empty bottles, the stares
of eyes I should’ve fed, warrants and other stamp acted
documents. I’ve no direction or grammar anymore.
I stutter an excuse, a mess of ellipses
and coke-shot syntax. This isn’t New York
though, we don’t have that.
I’m still adjusting to consciousness,
all that wake up warmth, sour tastes,
and kaleidoscope visions.
This is glamour, this is pop. This
is the scripture on the wall with all
our star crossed eyes to punctuate it,
and all that other shit too.
I’ve got a headache like a typewriter
without ribbons, and my fingers are stuck on
my temples like delete.
I found my masterpiece in a public bathroom,
and then I vomited.
***
R. Kyle Norris
Kyle is a student and writes the column “The Taciturn” for Xenith. He lives in SC and can’t find a job.
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