wrong number

[okiekookie]

warbled moans -
they come from within; an
unmistakable shrill call from nature herself.
this is the part -
one crashes onto the cool, porcelain
imitation of rubbish bins, where
forgotten memories of escapdes across
stained cotton plains and unwanted
floss were formed - lay hidden beneath
films of black and white (affairs that
were no longer current?)
it coaxes;
convinces the subconscious
that i was indeed the chosen one, for
there was an urgent need in
cleansing those mud-like monsters or
blimish liquid disguised as lemonade that
tasted too sour.
but no matter how much i fought, even
having to crush those vulnerable cotton fields:
for the creatures resisted; even retreating further
back. and when even those worn out sheets of context
failed to serve as a
distraction; when the day gave way
to the night, i conceded.


apparently nature dailed the wrong number