Man In The Radiator

  EXCERPTS FROM THE FOUND JOURNAL OF ANTHONY BUNTING, A LETTER ADDRESSED TO VICTORIA RINALDI: Every day for nearly an entire year has been exactly the same. Wake up and stay paralyzed in the hauntingly empty embrace of my bed as I wait for the lingering effects of the previous night’s sporadically nightmarish, trauma-fueled, and all-too-realistic bout of dreams to loosen its hold on me. The outside world, even the cramped confines of my dimly lit, unwanted memory-infested room, bears no meaning whatsoever; only existing in a strange twilight state of uncanniness with every single aspect of human life just barely out of my reach. It’s all untethered from my limited scope of consciousness as I force down the incessantly nagging and agonizingly persistent feelings of rejection, loss, and profound self-hatred. It surges through my freshly opened veins and the squelching leech-like keloids wrapping around my left arm as if I’ve been connected to an invisible system of barbed IVs transfusing

 This exploded out of my subconscious in an irrevocably tangled mess of words that seemed to have no real meaning and no real purpose; just more nightmare nonsense to occupy my increasingly dulled mind through all of my gray and hollow days. Most of this was written while listening to The New Backwards  by Coil - so perhaps that inspired some of this, or it could act as a good soundtrack to read through the uninspired puke I write. Not that any of this matters anyway, but I often like to be abundantly clear about what exactly inspires me...even though I am a meager worm in comparison to my artistic heroes. Anyway, not a single line in the below piece of writing makes any sense at all. I apologize in advance.  Drone Circus An immutable will, Legions of sick crawl on bandaged wrists From the cascading scrapyard of ghosts Raging through defiled skies, Unknowingly taking up their role  As audience to sideshow mutilations  And deformed, Abnormal, Cataclysmic copulations.  Carrying their you

 This is a sort of "part two" to the previous poem I posted on here. It's about the same shit, as always, but I wrote these segments of nonsense poetry close enough to each other that I figured that they somewhat complement each other. One was rooted more heavily in the past and the following one is more involved with the present while also being informed by the same past touched upon in the previous writing. Does that make any sense? No? Oh well.  Part One: https://manintheradiator.blogspot.com/2024/01/poetry-attempt-begin-anew-but-nothings.html art by Nicola Samori Untitled Tormentor I’m stuck in a foreign library In a foreign city Littered with seated headless statues Plumes of fetid smoke  Disintegrating stained-glass ceilings, All mocking my personal implosion  As I forcibly shed my blood, Try and fail To distance myself from you, Busying myself with a tired rearrangement  Of my life’s destruction Into meaningless, sardonic little words Ready to impale themselves At