Lost Voice

i've nothing to write;
blank, purposeless - i've lost my voice.
i've a confusion of images
screening around upon this very desk:
the boy, stumbling upon some white powder
in a trick oil can - he inhales deeply from the bag
when the old man comes home, it's the usual
"Fucking Cocksucker - where are you?"
but this time, the boy is crazed,
raving of revenge,
soaring out of the hall into the living room,
badly decorated in give away furniture
and an Expensive stereo,
there is a blurring kick, a fall,
arms screaming propeller fury
through the old man's bloodied face,
then, slow and deliberate -
with the thought
Invigorating Righteous Humiliation
takes the throat below him
between his thumb and fore & middle fingers,
pulling it slowly, his knee on the old man's chest
stealing his breath, leg hanging over one arm,
he almost whispers, "please, struggle -
it will be you who rips the Cocksucker
from your throat...
..." the old man squirms, tenses,
eyes wide and dilated beaming fear,
"Don't worry, you won't die" he assures
"You will live, most certainly
only you will never again have a voice."
I give up on that - it's too violent,
it gives too much away: too much the Diary.
But it feels good - it feels good to imagine
the other side of power, the other side of
Demeaning Humiliation. Liberation
fleeting as the ideation is
trapped between imagining and forgetting
on purpose both ways; it's an awkward drive:
COCKSUCKER comes loud to a quiet room
and disjoints the desire to live.
Having just accused her of Murder,
I live through exerting my power.
I remember that feeling now; My GOD! Finally!
a penetrating fear, a suffering eternal - waiting
losing faith after faith had already been lost;
survival:
I hid behind a bank of telephones
and waited, my chest heaving
my breathing halting
my throat dry - a cough crouched at the bottom,
until they leaned in:
they must not be able to hear each other;
they lean in again - clear as day
my knees buckle, my throat groans, my gut wrenches
i worry I will lose control of my bowels
and stumble over, unable to focus on a particular thought,
powerless, humiliated -
That was the murder, the desperate sickle
loping my head off into a portable guillotine basket
there on the patio of the chain restaurant,
bleeding out embarrassingly for her
nice dress, shoes, place they all went
+ illumination always comes too late:
that voicemail was not an invite.
Sometimes you come back to life. Sometimes.
but there's dead parts: always the thing you loved.
there is a murder, but it's slow
and finally consumes
which is why I will go in Russian Roulette.