the streets of the Hysterics
i sleep with the blanket half drawn over my head so that the spider priests cannot whisper their hymns into the sanctuary of my ears. under the lace and cloth which shrouds my bed like a fabric womb, i dream of houses filled with scattered remains of clothes and books, where the screams of banshee spirits keep me from the outside world. if i were to leave this place through rebirth — my long ears folded back, nose twitching, my leporine heart singing: thump, thump thump, thump thump… the wolves would come to surround me, salivating through scrunched jaws, eager to sink their teeth into brittle bone.
the sane no longer hold a place at the table of higher institution. the streets belong to the Hysterics now, Their throats hoarse from the religious high of the communal screaming of scripture. Their Saints grab the barrel of the gun at the altar and decree, ‘do it. I want you to make an effigy of Me. absolve and venerate Me before My Peers, so that They may bear witness to My Holiness. deliver unto Me the immaculate fix so My name is canonized on Their sacred tongue.’