The probe marks on my neck
darken, their purple outers
fading to a lighter pink-orange
pinhole, where alien creatures
sucked my blood after midnight,
altering the real memory with
another, leaving behind only
fragmants of reality, the rest open
for reconsideration, flickering
beside an overflowing candle.
The whole right side of my face
becomes numb, sound fades
with darting pink spots
at day break, into the sun
away from the silhouetted frame.
Whatever has been left here,
I do not wish to keep,
preferring mono-chrome snapshots
be shoveled to the wolves
rather than framed
for the masses.
THE FILTERED PRESS 