pohm scratched minutes ago

A Definition - Call me This (Please)

Whitney Houston and Steve Perry are dead to me
They were never alive to me.
I have no physical features that can be distinguished;
when I am a vibrating box;
I am a penetrating gulf coast
A sweating zebra
A trembling cock,
juxtaposed awkwardly upon a
pin-up board that is
your field of vision.

Clear your head,
I beg,
So that I may find heartbeat.

Scratch your eyes out,
Please,
I do not need them.

I am not a microphone cable,
I am not a cluster of tones,
I am not a thread to hang upon
(your neck cracked and eyes empty),
I am not a song that you heard
when you were a child.

They all tremble for me, vibrate for me,
vibrate inside, outside, in the air,
smaller than I can visualize, they vibrate.
They drive me to your heart -
and they will drive me to extinction.

I was ignored at age 11,
when the hall smelled like green peppers,
disgusting, green peppers,
like some janitor who I didn't give a shit about
at the time had left a trail of WaWa condiments
all over the vinyl tiles.
I cried at my desk with my juice box
and my yogurt,
I couldn't eat my fucking yogurt.

11 years old - completely absorbed
in my own imminent death -
yes, death ached that day;
and the dying of others,
stunk like green peppers.

I was sick for a week.

I was sad at age 13 -
one baby blue and white spackled wall day,
Reading Fleming pepper hallways consumed me,
this time, fear gripped my prepubescent testicles.
I threw up what food I had eaten that day.

My fingers write this because I am a machine.
It all amounts to nothing except that clear,
trembling, elusive vibration;
not trembling like the aforementioned cock,
or chord or box,
trembling like appreciation and passion.

Finally: I'm acculturation of chords
and the culmination of vibration,
where I swallow smoke and saliva.