The voices that flash before my eyes
smell like duct tape fresh off the roll,
like plastic and glue and mechanical things
that some people could fix, the ones who rise
as if dawn will judge their souls
and finish their coffee before birds sing,
the bitter before the sweet, and the voice
feel bitter, not sweet; the harshest ones
strip the hair from my legs like tape
ripped from it, the agony like the choices
that confound when the sun
drags in the problem of the day–
something that taste’s like the cat’s fresh kill
and rings in my ears like the victim’s blood
still wet on the sacrificial stone.
It’s a dream that strangles my will,
stabs me with splinters of dead wood, dead would,
and keeps me cocooned in bed alone,
washing down the flashing screams
with the vintage smell of fear.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 