I haven’t shared fiction on here in ages because virtually all my fiction goes to Art Stories these days. Thought I’d remedy that. I’ve fallen helplessly in love with prosaic poetry. Here’s some…

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The itch is back
The itches

These are the nights
In which I would kill myself…
If I could
I can’t

There are very many things
Many things I cannot do
Too many
But this itch
These itches I cannot scratch
These are the worst

Many of the many things
The things I cannot do
I can eventually learn to
One way or another
Some of the things
By way of the help of others
The others,
I have relearnt to do
I have had to

Tie shoelaces
Stir coffee
Knot ties
Comb hair
Brush teeth
Shake hands

Paint
Sweep
Type
Write
Lift
Wave

Scratch

These I have learnt to do
Relearnt to do

But this itch
These itches
I cannot scratch
They cannot be scratched

For this itch
These itches
They are at the tips of my fingers
The very tips

They nag
They gnaw
They tickle
They bite
They wriggle beneath my fingernails
Rap upon my knuckles
They dance in between the digits
Crawl up my hands

Around my wrists,
They seem to fade away
But upon my forearms,
They return full force
Tracing the veins up my forearms
And coming to rest
Just beyond my elbows

The mad itch
These crazy itches
And yet,
They can’t be scratched
They refuse to be

Earlier tonight,
I dreamt
I dreamt a dream
A dream of times past

I drove
Hard and fast
Along sunset-lit boulevards
And as the sun crept away,
Swallowed into the darkness,
I itched

I itched in my fingers
I itched in my hands
And then I scratched
Finger upon finger
And scratched
Hand upon hand
And scratched
Bliss

Until the sounds filled my ears
Of screeching tyres
And crunching metal
And tinkling glass

And my eyes filled
With blinding lights
And leaping flames
And spraying blood

Sensations
Of flesh flayed from bone
Of crushed limbs
Of pain unbridled

And then I awoke
To the mad itching
This maddening itch
Rabid itches

In the places
Where my hands used to be

Happy Halloween