Amputease...

Sometimes my brain goes dormant
and nothing works,
an effection occurs
where disconnect is the end result;
disconnect from ability and inspiration
and then a waiting occurs
and the longer this vegetative state,
the longer the loss of soul.

Force can be applied
but follows then degradation
and finally frustration;
a kind so maddening,
so tormenting that ears may get lopped off.

I sometimes think fingers,
wondering if for each failed moment,
each null and void,
I could cut off a digit
as one only needs two fingers
and a thumb on one hand to hold a pen,
even less to poke a keyboard.

What if for each tick of wasted effort,
I where to disconnect a minor appendage,
for each tock of malnourished moment,
I were to crimp,
pinch off at a joint,
to feel the real pain for an ultimate sin,
vacancy?

Would the agony be enough,
the loss finality enough,
minnie death penalties realized
with irreversible termination,
an exclamation,
the non-verbal "fuck you very much for nothing"?

Would I mourn,
or would I acclimate,
as each finger fell would I care less,
momentum ruling,
the kind wrought from irrational exuberance,
where the end justifies the means,
and the end cannot come quick enough?

I wonder which infection would be worse,
the staff kind,
or the kind where punishment builds
beyond fitting the crime,
and when I run out of fingers,
then what?

Will these ineffectual moments continue
to plague the creative landscape before me,
unemotionally resolved,
knowing only time will tell the final outcome,
while the diversion of agony will fill the void,
the visual reward of the crimson splash,
auditory crunches as bones splinter,
and a forced connection renews?

Will there be a sublime awareness,
an intense rush of sensory input
so consuming that only unconsciousness
can find room to follow,
or maybe that is all about blood loss?

Will there be scent of redirection, renewal;
as with loss comes life,
with detachment comes reconnection,
and a visual result forces remembrance
as to why things got to where they did?

As Zoe Wood sings, "I can't seem to get enough,
I just like the pain too much",
maybe I should just do tattoos instead;
a slave to the needle... less mess.