The Cold Light Of Day

The cold light of day
In
Sid
U
Ous
Like gently touching your wet eyeball in the pitch black, as you can't tell whether your eyes are open or closed
And a scoop of stomach guts
Thrust down with a meat tenderiser
And regurgitated back to the ribbit in your throat

Peeling your eyes open
Chilled
All is usual
Dis
Con
Cert
Ing
Hollow suddenness
The flash of their death
The realisation
The dreaded gut wrenching fear darkly brewing up through your bubbling cauldron and trickling down your neck
The senses awakened

And a kiss
Stolen from your lips
Am
Big
U
Ous
Ly
Skipped a beat, stabbed the white knuckles and stomped the spit dripping from your brow
Tenderly weeping
Punched in the guts
Each breath heavy and heavier until you've drowned
Entering the treacle of darkness luring behind the curtains

And lungs
Burst alveoli
Dripping so sweetly sick
Mock
Ing
Ly
Disjointing
Never ending groaning again
Groaning and groaning
Rocking and falling into the
Into the wretched pool
Clinging
Strangling your neck

But you
It dawns
Dis
Gust
Ing
Ly
Gulping the sudden slap
Freshly woken
Senses toking
Flesh crawling away
Eating yourself enveloped and wanting to stomp the fire out
With your bare feet

Ever tried opening your eyes when the lids are sewn together?
Lights flickering against
Shadows
En
Gulf
Ing
Nausea is too keenly apparent
When gut wrenches thrown up and spitting up blood into your cupped hands
Eyes stinging

In the cold light of day
It all seemed so
Rid
Ic
U
Lous

The whispers in the attic.

The whispers in the attic are high above our heads, with the larks and angry ravens, dipped wings from white to black. 

They won't hear you, be calm. They hear you call the storm. They hear you make your statement with a thunderous clout, forlorn. 

But it wasn't. It wasn't heard. And all those whisperings of needles and pins like hundreds of sparrows wings, beating fast and spreading, splaying legs, plucked and shedding. 

Whispers whisper slowly, they sneak over and crawling, sprawling and bawling over rooftops from the attic, spilling out through black nights, crows pecking at  moon light. 

Squawking, singing, tripping, so giddy, to the ears of hidden privy. To tumble the word, the whisper it's golden. 

To spoil it would be rotten, but lest it is forgotten, that whispers are unspoken, 'cept in the rooftops of attics, where they're practically sycophantic. 

And some will seep and ooze, like a deep slumbering snooze, filling the rooftops like thick soup, reminiscent of halitosis, the stench of wrong whispers, twitching cats whiskers, tapping paws upon the skylines, whispers upon whiskers.

Get stolen, be taken by the whispers so mistaken, from the bird twitterings of stench, from wench upon wench.