A Brains Poetry

                                                    Free

Weak, morbid, I yelled in agony at my antagonist, flimsy, in search of hungry for freedom.
To my jailhouse I was confined, the dreadful place cruel and unusual, then only to tumble, then to fumble on bony arms.
My bones then became weaker, swaggering, becoming thin image of toothpicks. Glassy
evil eyes there with utter madness.
I became floppy, then walked with my bony fragment skeletal becoming blackish and stale, with raggy black and white vestures, only death-ridden, corpse
now mere clone and mirror image. Only then I danced with the deathly, very pale,
swinging the grim reaper’s scythe. Then I danced again with death hooking, grasping onto
his grim reaper robe.
Flashing
with know flesh, I became skin, more rawboned, ready to tumble again, holding the chain ball hooked to my leg only to
fumble on leg. I found little room, know mobility, rusty and musty. Then I sniffed using my sniffer—beyond foul, stool smelling.
Confined to my jailhouse dungeon then luckily, I’ve found pieces of cheese, nibbling
it like mice, with my nibbler teeth. Num-num for my tum, I think.
Only Zilch little to eat.
Moldy cheese now grows green mold.
Know bread to chew, just to be all the chewier.
Know pork for the poor swines are the correctional cooks eating there— Spam and ham. Only little fumet meat is left, or cow, only slop, very sloppy with savory gravy. To my tomb one day, there, I face life in prison, in the body cell with know way out, for the body is sealed.
Having the lonesome stomach, gutless, one day I am to
fall, with gut only to ache with no way out, with bigger aching hands.
Cries of anguish
with more hardships, shipped to the black box, weeks go by
with little water that only frizzles from the pisser and crapper toilet with an unbearable stench of lard dung.
Whereas animals stay cooped up in their poopers, jailbirds we are
called, caged,
muttering slanderous profanity; but fussing and cursing does not soothe me.
In my dungeon, I am self-crucified to bars, becoming bored sometimes behind bars.
Tallying days with chalk on the blackboard, I find pieces of coal nearby all too cool.
Becoming artful with powdery, fluffy chalk on the wall, then
I become artistic, making my vivid, scribbling graffiti art-gallery masterpiece.
I write in my fragile diary of how I can change. But know, Bible can save me, tell the sentence of judgment day.
Becoming righteous, wishing to be holy to become the saint, to break free, I know
that Saint Peter holds the vital
key to the gates of the underworld.
But in the dungeon, where the hell is the key? “Locksmiths,” I sigh, “unlock me.”
Not too far from my deathbed will Saint Peter release me from these iron imprisoning bars. I ponder; then I scream, “What shame.” Now down under in the dungeon for the last ten years,
purgatory is reality, if not mania hallucinated for an unjust judge who sentenced … I have mania now,
maniac in the jail cell. In the
underworld in all the more fetters, then I weep where no saints hear my weeping cries. Only
fictitious of my mind is when I will be released, only to crumble, mumbling, “Let me out …”
For the felony I have committed of theft, crammed in the slammer in this holey lavatory
hellhole, cooped up, just wagging like dogs, barking, yelping in his kennel, chowing his kibble.
Becoming the cryptic corpse, one decade goes by. I become seedy, in need for my King James Bible. Hours pass,
now sealed again in real-life mortuary.
When will the gates unseal me? Barred in metal hedges, still I fidget just to get disbarred one day
till I’m pardoned and free, to get parole in one hundred years still, or millennium or even eons.
Slow is my agony to antagonize me, for fate will do its part.
Fateful walking bones will crumble
and then fumble more with fetters, being more shabby and flabby, only to regress.
Will Saint Peter answer?
Then I go outside one morning for recreational PE.
Seeing my dear inmate shaking his kindly, handy hand, I do unveil the secret
card under his sleeve. Using his mojo, it bears the words
get-out-of-jail-free card. To his and my canny handy surprise, it happens to be from the Monopoly board game, only more dumbfounding.
Then out in the courtyard,
high above flies the birdy. With it’s talons, swooping, then poops on jail guards; then it clasps for me.
Swooping with it’s wingspan,
it grapples with the hook, then somewhat hooks, now an gaff catching bass. Harnessed, now hanging like hangers, I’m cuffed for dear life, escaping barbed wire. Now jubilant, sky-high
I’m getting out of jail free, where know lawman can find me, saying, “Thank you, my Saint Peter, for the chance card. You always gave me another chance. Now becoming the jailbird