Nervous Green

It's red and black
perfect, tainted by green, the
filth that paints neurons on
chips of an earthware teacup
- its acid bores from the fingernail's
unseen underside all the way up to the
inland sea pressured in my left eye –
that green that tastes of wrong place
and time, wrong leaf and wrong apple.
I cusp a convex container,
for the time being allowed to
pull together different strands
in expectation of better days,
savouring a sleep of no dreaming
- the glossy surface of spiritual disturbance
which no mind can successfully mediate,
which does not fulfil requirements for existence.
The shaking earthware cup screams aloud
for it pains, when crimson, to be tainted by green.