3153. I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP

I REALLY NEED
YOUR HELP
(madness)
If I could just cut through, get
someone to listen; but no, no, no,
my words are dead on the wharf -
sinister movements and the
dead-heading sailor asleep
on the creosote post. And
I am sorry for that.
-
I bead-buckled my final cadaver,
lit my last torch and singled-over
my final double-indemnity, sitting
like Boethius in my solitary cell
for you and the rest of your sainted
Mankind all, going about your
wayward ways : now park that
car, now make that call.
-
It does seem, these days, that people
really are born already on the phone,
jabbering their junk all right from the
very start. By contrast, my pale
temperature boils. I miss, oh dearly,
my pleated shirt and all that it
brought forth; its glory, it solid
inattention to detail and form.
-
But now, having reached my own
impasse and crossed the station
over to my own mental ward, I
ask - do you know any of what
I mean? Why Dilling finally
blew his head off? Here, here,
I really need your help.
-
If there again was just someone to listen,
someone to hear me out, then those
thrumming registers of low sound
would be howling instead my own
forceful name - astound, absurd,
wastrel child me. They've made
a ring-coil from but letters of
my name. Let's try and forget
the doubt. Just go. I really
need your help.
-

Dandelion millweed tiger's paw.
Decibel departure Miami suture.
Everything like this, brought
together at last. What a ghastly,
ghastly world. I really, really
need your help.