Man In The Radiator

          I don’t do well in warm weather. I don’t do well in excessive sunshine. I don’t do well being exposed to the outside world for too long of a time during any time of the year, really. But it is especially difficult during the arduous and disgusting months of late spring and summer. Months where I have to ditch the long sleeves, jackets, etc. and have more of my loathsome, uncanny, discolored flesh be exposed. What makes it even more horrifying is lacking the comfort of covering the scars that run vertically down my upper arm, tragically right below where the sleeves of any of the short-sleeved shirts I own ends. Some horizontal cuts further up my arm can be seen on occasion, (one recently just scabbed and reopened, so even though it has been a while since I’ve cut it looks like there’s a fresh one right there for the world to see), but luckily most people are utterly oblivious and trapped in their own tiny egotistical skulls to the point where th...

 It has, YET AGAIN, been too long since I've managed to write anything at all. This one just sort of happened; like a car running over a tiny animal that seemed to have suddenly appeared in the middle of the road. I'm much too tired to explain anything or say anything relating to my current mental state. This poem is a mess, it's terrible, it's nonsensical, it is like all of the rest. Make of it what you will, because I haven't a clue. That is all. I hope I can sleep and stay asleep forevermore.  Kalte Sternenkinder Murder of angels Rearranged and mutilated Planetary surgical clamps  Spreading open the chaotic center, Unspooling celestial flesh  Cascading down  Amniotic staircases  Stretching out through the necrotic wounds  Scabbed over in space, Through the threshold of once silent, Primordial nonexistence, Boiling and bulging with hideous new pregnancies  From the molested, defiled cracks  Lining the unfathomable depths  Of the anemic...

This probably should have been two poems. Or maybe it shouldn't have been written into anything at all. It was all a mess of several disconnected pages in my shameful little notebook, all unknowingly focusing on the same old tired bullshit that I simply can not escape from. It will be the end of me. But for now, here I still am...still writing these nonsense confessions of disgusting, awful, futile, ridiculous feelings that matter to no one and contribute to nothing. This is all that there is, perhaps. We've all been deceived. There is no future.  photo by Matthew Lombard   Haunted by the Last Days Used syringes in cobwebbed decorations, Impressions of our bodies etched in black mold, Labyrinthine assortment of pills  Orphaned mice, emaciated and weeping, Funneling out of corroded radiators Which never gave us any heat, In the collapsing north We replaced the walls With rusted metal gridwork  And mirrors stained with opened veins.  Books of existential fallacies...