As the spirit of Lazarus, I animate. Reanimate, from a bizarre slumber to a palpitate night air. Gulf winds intrusively herding heavy clouds like spirit cattle, bearing arcane riders of esoteric threat. Even the paunchy feline whom lays upon my window sill like a tapestry, raises his head in diagnostic concern. Search the meager commorancy. Search the garden. Search the street. Search the air I breathe. Search the sky. Question the felines. Interrogate my own consciousness like a paranoid constable, inquiring of a delict event to come, or that hath already come. No evidence. Only my own spent cigarette that nursed my uneasiness and succored this dark morning probe of delirium and aberration. And now, with one final breath, cessation. Quiescence.
archetypically,
I sow my hysterical libido,
in the Jungian brain garden,
and reap only ecclesiastical weeds,
and subconscious rashes...
breaking apart, engorged,
mad egoist, freudian slip'd,
spilling repressed aloes,
into her ashen columbarium...
penitent, penniless,
scrabbled up the storied mount,
silently trapp'd, interlocuted,
cast back to a southern field...
adiposed, juniper kiss'd,
scarlet nin, flagrante delict(oh),
wagging tongued, freely spoken,
i'll come round again,
ecstatically.