Free Write 1, Week 8

"When Green Light Becomes Topical"

To know God is to become God--
a social pariah in every snake pit and rat hole
except Bertrand Russell's grave.

Drunk on the machinery of fifteen-minute fame--
Warhol's fake alcohol that convinces fifteen-year-olds
to stumble through lies and second acts,
like an F. Scott Fitzgerald in T.S. Eliot clothing.

She left me as a zombie--not brains, oh not brains,
only hearts, oh only hearts.
She tossed me into charred forests
and 24-karat eye lakes like a dwarf--
a petrified Indian, a hungry prisoner
starving from lack of nutrition
and sleep.  She paid Insomnia to kill me
so she could cash-in my life insurance policy--
yeah, the one I never knew about.

I'm a starving insomniac
who spends his days counting minutes with pretzel sticks
and crying like the baby in Eraserhead.

The pills I take to sleep
gather my brain cells into a concentration camp
somewhere near the medulla oblongata,
where Vomit and Coughs reside,
and bathes them with today's finest poisons
under a shower-head, under lampshades
that prisoners donate against their own will.

I am a liar, and none of this is true,
depending on which linear, cobble road
Martin Amis is traveling today.