An extremely tetchy, trauma geyser is fizzing – as an obfusc, voodoo brew –
beneath a serene, graceful surface: yet more of my unruly lifetime’s, stymied
debris to excavate – from the Abbadonian, soul-stirring slime pit – and
perspicaciously express. My psyche’s Patagonian mosquito has landed: drilling
for blood, it pierces my soul as a psychotic maniac with a rubiginous syringe!
Deep within my subconscious, Mnemosynian archives, there resides a jagged,
gyte shard: I must extract this parlous, psychological artefact – succinctly as a
piece of intricately miniated hydria – and circumspectly inspect it. My glyptic
wisdom will scroll poetically into cryptic diction; ornate as exquisite mezzorelievo. These curious, iconic epics will evolve into abstruse, chronological,
psychological dossiers; then filed in an historic, confessional-elegy library. I am
The Warring Harridan: a psychagogue, moulting my pneuma’s tedious onus by
boundlessly fly-tipping versified ire – as eclaircissemental offerings – to
volumes of personally quirky poetry books. My Bragian, internal brouhaha will
be the theme of lengthy deliberation and criticism. My radical, Callopian cries
will spansulise, and liberalize diatribes. I sense an epic, minacious monster
creeping out from dank cobwebs in a derelict crypt.
Sunless recesses of my
essence are melancholy
potholes; muskegs, swollen
with cognitive sewage. As a
thaumaturgist, I transform
intricate transference into
fascinating, spiritually
visual symbols, and
phenomenal, refined Tyrian
lines. I am prancing
verbosely into a new arena
of hearts and minds. The
Alexander Techinique
filched-out stout,
psychotherapeutic rats a
few years back; squealing
and mincing frantically
through my emotional
bilge-pump; leaping out
through my drainpipeepiglottis.