Milk Thistle

I'm waiting for the witch doctor to arrive 

With nasturtiums to perform magic 

I scratch the itch, I kill it

I'm growing impatient by the minute 

Watching the clock tick 

 

Things couldn't get any worse

I'm moonstruck, doubting myself 

I could pule trying to live

Like a total blasphemous addict

I'm melancholic, hopelessly forlorn

Thrilled by the husk of a saxophone 

I have been binging on my fears

Been doing this for years 

 

By now I get on the bike and go

I know the acute pangs like the back of my hand

I push them out like I knead dough

It's gibberish to me, I toil and feel pain

Coughing up phlegm, a storm

The burden on my back is weighing me down

My blood is boiling like an African horizon

I've detected I've erred

I'm beleaguered, a void shell

Crack me like a nut, I'm a falling skyscraper

Ocean-wide and as deep as a lexicon

I make no sense

 

Churning out long winded poems, emollient-like

I've waded into the water

Hungover 

I'm unemployed, like a butterfly trapped in a jar

A bipolar yo-yo, up and down 

Like a limb

In the city, enthralled by newfangled technology

I'm a deer in the headlights in my favourite habiliments

I'm a negligent continuation, a bad influence

Whispering about the decadence

With sunken eyes and laughter lines

Pouring molasses.