he couldnt say what disturbed his sleep

                                 what rose from the swamp the foggy miasma of his stinking mind

if the generous hmmbuzz

                     like skin exfoliated

sounding in the depth of his ear

which he couldnt get at with a qtip  not deep enough to absorb or wipe out
was It
      or if inside his ear  what he felt

was something alive  unfurling 
                          a larva maturing

it muttered to him when he tried to sleep

                                 muttering in a sonorous voice that should have belonged to someone old
an ancient one

             their creaking and wheezing

confiding  Do you see?

Wharme lookin

No matter

Anywhere

I didnt encamp here grow here to expect you to look anywhere but where you wanted

Dont bitch me

 

Did you see?

he felt it twitch deep inside his ear  cochlear concatenations

                                                 beatings drummings twitches whispers

 

looking up into the dark above his bed he saw the ceiling fan shiver  exalt

then one of its four blades began to snake  snaillike  extending an eyestalk

then confusiona confusion only an Inanimate can have

                                            then changing it morphed

the blade retreated reducing to its original size

a preternatural reversal  its physics inertia silently turned the fan slightly

its ball bearings creaked as centimetres gave way  not so much a movement as a sigh

  a shift  arranged to a different perspective 

                                    then beside that blade another grew instead

stretched

to a hmmm of distortion

                    guttural

a nightsound one hears but cannot identify

                                   and listening hard  eyes searching for nothing

for nothing ever becomes of nightsounds because no one truly wants to see those night things that haunt their subconscious or unconsciousness 

                           that act on the stages of their dreams where they have the excuse that nightmares induced their horror as they mangled bodies inflicted torture  sadistically ignored pitiful pleas  bloodstained pliers squeezed hacksaw blades pushed and pulled and bonedust seeped  handdrills torqued and screwed-end bits bit  taking hold  boring  blood dribbles from scalps  skull plates try to resist  long hair twines up dullsteel shafts

 

the blade  elastic  grows longer

until above him in the dark when his eyes have grown accustom  he sees better  better

facing down

it forms a pale crucifix 

it flutters mothlike momentarily

and in that forlorn spasm a spark of grey life 

                                    Existence

 

on its belly where once was a whiteglass globe  it moves

rolls gently  carefully   working a kink out of its neck

hair grows

a beard grows

features

a twisted braid of thorns

crude handmade barbedwire

hanging above him 
looking down
watching him as he watches it
a crucified jesus swaddled at the hips with crude linen

his wounds drip  fall
                  they stain the blanket he lies under
perhaps soaked in cold cold water he might hopefully lift its holy smirch

                                                                                                             Do you see?
out of his dull ear
which he probed with his little finger for many days 
irritating him
hed laid in the sun his head turned to it trying to dry it out

it seemed he hadnt

out of it crawled a shivering bug

it crawled down to the angle of his jaw fluttered its slender scythe-shaped wings

apparently pleased by their formation and function it buzzed  then it lifted up into the bedrooms space and atmosphere to join with other night noises he heard

listening
        he could imagine someone hearing them 

their hand moving to their heart or throat in fear  sidling near madness imagining the crying beasts
 

them slithering crawling flying  a Hieronymus Bosch menagerie tickled from his triptych

he closed his eyes

                 Do you see?

his silent dumb acquiescence hadnt thwarted its voice or go unrewarded

there was an itch at his tricep  his arm bared  out from underneath his blanket 
another itch at his thigh through the blanket 
an itch atop his foot where jesuss was split by a crudeformed iron nail or peg  its head smashed by a forged hammer

not itches  bites

the bug fed

turning his head he saw the clocks red-illuminated display
 

it was still at 3:44

hed wakened at 3:44

time was unmoved

no matter if he was awake or asleep

it taunted him

he was barely able to hear  

it taunted him in the jeer of an auctioneer
                                  bleating  Do I hear . . .
provoking bids 
the ante raised 
What will you give me . . .
bidders cards raised into the air capturing his frenetic attention 
Now I hear . . .
Do I hear . . .
I hear . . .
the bids higher and higher up and up
deliciously tense 
expectant 
the bidding more lavish 
his sleeves held up by garters
the buttons near his throat undone 
him lighted by the redhue cast by the clocks display
3:44 
marbled like a seething caldera
a splashing volcano pregnant with new stone and sand
a final bid propositioned
(was he asleep or awake) 
the gavels wagged
crucified jesus screams 
his cross turning under the ceiling like a slow wagonwheel

the bug birthed out of his ear fed on his blood

crowded at the edges the threshold of his bed
things Bosch captured in oils
that were never allowed back from whence they came
because there 
were things that remained unseen unrealised

he tried to close his eyes
                     Do you see?

now the pliant hiss of a snake
                         Do you see?

a jetblack spider descends in its web to spin up its struggling prey
                                                     Do you see? 

the auctioneers gavel bangs
Sold!

he didnt answer

he refused to answer the Obvious

0344,  Twosday,  19  4. 16