The Home Invader

He must be pleased as pitch because he doesn’t want to stop.

He’s burned a pokehole in my wall. A little manrat wall pokehole made with bright blue butane burning black cookie-cutter discus in my perfect clean peeling paint lemonyellow wallength. Turned it black and blue and ashy and made a little pokehole through. Little proper pokehole poking through my perfect picture wall. Proper pile of ash. Big smoking plastic discus lying on the flashy floortile right there where he’s burned a hole into my wall. Burned a hole right down by kitchen tiles, little hole to stick through into my little halftone house and make it hellish with his little wallburn pokehole questions. Asking stupid sopping soapy questions at me through his little fucking pokehole place. Saying, “What’s my pulse?” “Is a doctor coming?” “Am I going to die?” He’s all ticking gnashing chattering, asking pokehole questions from the burned spot out my wall. Burned spot out my wall, down by the clashing kitchen tile, the very place they called a modern morbid abattoir. Sink slimy sticky hanging overhead, black green malingering mold clumped and crumbly clingy. Not a very nice place for a pokehole at all, if you ask me, from what I saw. “Where are we?” “Is this a crypt?” No, it’s here I sit. Just here, and nowhere else, where else would I be? I’m right here at my dripping table, slowly sinking into the floor, and I feel the stupid sloshing sea above me, and I hear my neighbor at the door. I put my homegrown hand above the candle, twice twisted, quick light, and watch burning nightsick buildings falling from my flaccid flesh. My wall is nothing for me anymore. I’ll never be alone. I’ll make the others keep the score.