God, I itch.
When they say it’s all in your head,
Forsooth, this time they are right.
The tympanic membranes
vibrate at a galling frequency
perhaps meant for Fido to hear.
But I cannot scratch
this bitch of an itch.
Scalp over scabbed skull I scratch,
helping along that balding patch.
(at least, that’s my belief)
But the stuff inside my meathead brain
it won’t be calm, and won’t refrain.
Miles and miles of duodenum.
Fold upon fold, in dreams I’ve seen ’em.
Oh, let me lift my lid now, just this once,
a give a good scratch, stir the stew.
Like that wretched Dr. Finklestein
from The Nightmare before Christmas.
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.