The Schizophrenic Tenant by Sean Hill

 

Mr. Landlord...horde...harpsichord

                I have a couple of

complaints. I’ve

hive...alive...thrive...deprive

                been feeling faint. I think

there’s

heirs...fares...chairs...scares

                a gas leak in my flat. The

stove may blow up

cup...hiccup...stick-up

                or I may pass out—asphyxiation. Of course

not

hot...cot...nasal bot

                I don’t think you’re trying to

kill me

spree...skeleton key...daily.

                I’ve been feeling sick—head

cold like something

ping...bing...string...sting

                crawling around in my

sinuses. I’d much appreciate

hate...fate...procrastinate

                it if you could fix the window

cracks

blacks...backs...attacks

                and the roof leaks. And when

I’m on the shitter I

                think the flicker of the fluorescent light

                might induce a stroboscopic epileptic seizure.


                Lastly at night a security light outside

rip tide...homicide...confide

                would be nice.