Subterranean Home Sick Alien


Some poetry inspired by Radiohead.

It’s not so much being alone…

…it’s being adrift.

Dancing with stars and creating galaxies out of supernova mindsets.
Breezes, warm, flow through hair, and feet meet the sidwalk with a sullen step.

I’ve cut out my spine with safety scissors and hung it next to the shower curtain.
Now I’m afraid of shadows.

But the sun comes out, warms my wounds, and I continue on my way. Looking up.

I hear the soundtrack…

…drifting aimlessly

through my mind, narrating my emotions.
My friends buzz in the silence of alarm clocks.

It’s not being alone…

…it’s akin to flying.

I draw energy into my stomach and greedily keep it to myself.
I don’t need to share.
I don’t care if I’m uptight.
Out-of-sight.
The light is for me.

At night, I sit on the toilet and read old Superman comics.
No darkness.
My spine, drying, tingling.

My nerves twitch behind my eyes, I think they are laughing.

My tongue sits on a dinner plate.
I know it’s happier there.

I shave off all my hair.
My feet- I tossed them out the window.

I can’t feel my legs anymore, but that makes me smile.

I cut one arm off, throw it to the neighbours dog. It squeaks between his teeth.
Birds wake up and sing to me the dawn.

I scoop out my eyes and put them safely in a glass by the sink.
I mime a dance of love for the universe, my friends, my family, strangers and kings.

I chew off my other arm- it falls onto the tile.
I imagine it makes a beautiful pattern- white on red- like a mint from a restaurant.

The world is dark.
I’m afloat in a bathtub at sea.
I imagine.

It’s not so much being alone…

…it’s being free.

It’s flying.
It’s floating.

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About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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