IN DARK TARRY

IN DARK TARRY

The "Befores" come to pour into small holes thirsty; over yellowed enameled groans
atop pillows.  They are invasive, sticky, a midnight molasses. Their creepings drill into
a topography of unexplored fractures now exposed behind broken plaster.  A record needle
scratches on Baba O'riley spinning over Hendrix, resting on Joplin while riffs bounce along
empty halls of pitted terrain under a swinging light bulb. And panic, a blanket, uses my
breath re-breathed to smother.

Consciousness makes several attempts to withstand the spiders from my head which move
en masse over every inch, into every corner.  They undulate up and down in insect jerky motion
laying eggs, multiplying, to spread as eight legged Tarzans on spun vines across the ceiling; like
trapeze artists under a Big Top crossing from wall to wall, to window, to door, to the openings
they seal - gone by morning are they real?
 
Nightly repeatedly spun and same
The answer carried in dark tarry
Yes, their webs...remain.