Short Poem of Failed Attempts at Self-Destruction

 This was a poem I wrote quite a few days ago that happened to unknowingly burst forth from me like a disgusting bout of unexpected vomit...or like a violent and horrific miscarriage. I have since tried to sit down and type it up into something coherent or try to expand upon it, but several attempts at that have ended in either total abject disaster or pushed me to write something else entirely. So I gave up. I surrendered to this pathetic and ridiculous collection of meaningless words and simply transcribed whatever I wrote in my notebook onto my computer, made a few extremely negligible edits, and decided to abandon it completely by uploading it here. This site of mine might as well be a lousy and ill-kept cemetery for all of my failed writings and abandoned ideas. I don't know who reads any of this, I can see how many people read each post I make but I never know who any of you are. I don't know if I care to know, perhaps knowing would make this all the more impossible. But, regardless, I do sincerely hope you get some sort of enjoyment out of these nonsense writings because I am absolutely not enjoying writing them. But I have no choice, if I stop writing then I will surely stop existing. It's all futile and broken and nothing will ever be able to change until the moment of my hopefully untimely death. I suppose the following "poem" is sort of about the meaningless of it all; in perseverance, in upholding coping mechanisms, in focusing on methods to end it all. Or maybe it's about nothing at all. Probably the latter. That is all. Expect more misery in the future. 

Günter Brus

Everything is Useless

Abused facial tissue

Sewn tight to a boiling stove top,

Chunks of inky flesh bubble 

And fall away,

Bouts of alienated, poisoned thoughts

Steam up the putrescent atmosphere

Of dying larvae whispering goodnight

And smiling, tattooed fetuses 

Dangling from shattered light fixtures.

Inhuman appendages

Imprisoning malformed eyes

Rolling over white 

In a gray, shriveled head of canceled malcontent,

Mirrored atrocities projected 

On the tea and bile-stained floor.

Rising stench of burning hair and rust

Alchemical home surgeries 

Throats burning with bleach and methylamine

All articulation screams and fails

One too many attempts,

Futility overcoming indestructible primordial terror

Echoing existential reminders

Of who or what you really are.

And why agents of the falling moon

Won’t stop crawling through unopened windows

To peel back and study 

Your horrifically uncanny mockery 

Of the human form. 

Staggering up the endlessly careening steps,

Jagged and painted

With carnivals of flowers in various 

Beautiful displays of decay,

While multitudes of snapped syringes 

Expand the reality infection discoloring your scabs,

Bathroom lights beckon

With a rain of torn-up moth wings,

Curtains of forced open keloids

And memories disintegrating into hazardous dust.

Nothing left to do but commit once again

To the familiar razor blade ritual;

Scraping lovingly, cleaving open 

New pathways of vertically bisected flesh,

Hoping for catharsis,

A momentary distraction and unhealthy release

From the endless tumult of agony and despair,

But something’s wrong,

You sink into paralyzed desolation

As you watch the blade stop, the wound blossom,

And see 

That there’s no blood left at all. 

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