The feeling
in his
head: locked
dead. On
the floor,
on the
floor in
his head:
dead. The
door, open,
wearing a
vast bib
of blood.
Blood-crusted
the bloody
nose shocked;
Shocked to
death, his
mouth, like
the door.
The door
opened... "Come
in," but
not my problem
coming or not
no way to
linger longing looking
nothing to be done
nothing to be done
the hanged man
with his tight little accent
a fart like a party horn
blown by a kid with asthma
apparently felt at home
on the couch
for almost an hour
you must be joking
must be joking
he shouted
and pulled a butcher knife
out of his belt
an enormous slab of greasy salt-and-pepper ponytail staggering backward, dazed, speaking-in-tongues gibberish, crying out:
"Hey dickweed!"
"Yeah, you!"
"I'm talking to you!"
with a girl, one knee on the sidewalk, screaming:
these days
conversation consisted of
mutely-loud
simply-brooding
open-to-the-world-as-patiently-as-suicide
heavy thump
these things
βββββweren't the important things
for one thing
outside something
would make things worse
still, outside
βββββthings have changed
βββββsomething made silent
the same things
but mostly
βββββsomething
βββββabsolutely
King, Stephen. Cell. New York; Pocket Star, 2006. Print. pp 37-53.
