sundays are a pox

it begins
not always
but often enough
with a taste of
acidic electrical
static dripping
from molar to
tongue in a
tingling numb
similar to
touching your
tongue to a
nine volt battery

the anxiety
pounces all sinew
and muscles rippling
a jaguar
growling softly
the dappled light
through the leaves
a perfect camouflage
for an apex predator

ten thousand
angry crimson hornets
stinging a symphony
in overstimulation
lactic acid flushes
cramping limbs
twitching in time
to airplanes circling
motorcycles roaring
haunting this
decrepit apartment
hoping to bleed
beauty across the
ugliness of need

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