What Remains to be Seen

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Enema minded, goes up and out.
Woozy and dilapidated,
singing the sirens' overture, praying
for the end.
Forgetting what to forget and remembering
the unwatchable, the terror of the visual
blind to my eyes.
Ghastly choirs of screeches and
silent screams known to be there,
waiting for me to pick it up.
Horror stands before me,
waving its flag while I stand
stupefied and mesmerized
by the sheer flagrancy of
candid life.