I’m not alone with the tv on,
so I tell myself.
I stalk the room – pick up a book
put it back on the shelf,
strangest of feelings going on inside,
can’t seem to work it out,
decipher or decide,
but I feel it in here – and I sense it
Nothing to do with loneliness – nothing to do with grief,
nothing to run from – no one to meet,
but like cuban-heeled boots on a late night’s deserted street
there’s a hollowness that echoes.
In my relation’s house there lived a creature
we called the creeper,
sick savage spinster – listen at your door,
a keyhole peeper.
Chief of god’s police won’t have any
good Catholic boy masturbation.
Let her fingers do the walking in private –
marble saint’s clitoral flagellation.
Didn’t have to look too hard – didn’t have to be told,
somewhere deep down – inside that tortured soul,
had to be hell’s own shit load
of a hollowness that echoes.
Me, I’m a jizz-mopper over at the raincoat club,
spent fantasies are what I clean up,
all the booths they have that smell.
Disembodied dream girl they’ve come to know so well,
images now the only things that gel,
they’ve succumbed to disenchantment’s spell.
Some have families, lovers, some are just bent,
some are poor lost souls who can’t keep up with life’s rent.
We’ll all be back to share the sacrament
of the hollowness that echoes.
My fear is sown inside a six pack and a fit pack,
not gonna let you in.
I can go where you can go
but you cannot go where I’ve been,
the gatekeepers I’ve wrestled with,
the peaks and then the fall –
Death’s fingers climbing up your spine,
the banshees wail before the dawn.
Powerless I am drawn back to that place of Hell’s spawn
in that hollowness that echoes.
Mister Harry’s slipknot done come undone again,
OD’ed, robbed, and necro-raped they found her
in a dumpster bin.
They had to close her eyes, still open wide,
clean the blood, mucus, the excrement,
souvenirs of her last ride.
Somewhere someone else is going to die
inside that hollowness that echoes.
© Akha Bones 2003