Pica
I like the smell of leaded petrol,
pure, unadulterated,
the destructive euphoria of which intoxicates me
innocently unaware that it has forsaken me;
before I could realize that
olfaction influences gustation
and addiction is not a hoax,
I had become a car
that wouldn't run without petrol;
like a plant that requires photoperiod-
except my plant overdosed on sunlight.
But I drank all my water yesterday,
and choked and coughed
to drink the black gold again.
I like to see the impasto yellow,
the paint that's toxified by lead,
the real natural joy, the drug I need,
like a rat gnawing on my living skin;
we fail at realizing that
the eyes, sometimes, have it,
to activate the taste buds;
I had become the kalsomine,
deathly pale without some paint-
perhaps, a thick layer of it.
But I tried gobbling up real food last night
I couldn't gulp it down my gullet,
because my throat had inflamed
that wouldn't let me eat anything, but the paint.
I am faded, and wasted,
moreover tired,
my muscles spasm one after the other,
you could see the burton line on my gums
while I uttered incomplete sentences
whose sounds my pinna refused to collect,
my senses have deserted me-
you put one finger up and I see three,
I bite my own tongue
and my teeth grind each other-
while pieces of my brain explode,
but my skull opposes their projectile;
yet, there's enough lead left to score.
The doctor gives me some popcorn to eat,
and makes a list of the things I shouldn't eat-
that consisted of all the things I love to eat,
and another list of the things I must eat-
all the things I choke on.
I tell him about my sore fauces-
my voice breaking, trembling,
doing its damnedest to sound stern-
and with a well-crafted professional voice,
he tells me how he would starve me
if I ate what should not be eaten;
so I go home and self-medicate,
with more petrol and some more paint.
Copyright © Nishika Patole | Year Posted 2018
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