Man In The Radiator

 No more of this.  The Blood in the Stars Spectral orbs of memories Your seraphim smiles,  Clouds of tormented tears  And ghostly fingers finding refuge  In the fading shadows of my palms All losing their grip, Slowly burning up in the firmament Storms of sorrow knotted around falling deserts Unspooling the woven thread of thorns Speared right through my flesh and bones, Discarded, piled under   Mountains of multicolored blankets  Lost in the corners of your cobwebbed room.  White-out, Voided nightmares A lonely, neverending funeral  Lying at the bottom of our window. Your Shakespearean name Once firmly branded onto my withering brain Loses its softly bruised luster,  Its revitalizing brilliant glow That colored my every lost night  Molded beautifully malformed kewpies  From my abundance of dust, But, inevitably, the porcelain slowly cracked away, Squirming gnats and termites revealed  Underneath the chipped grimaces ...

The past two weeks have been colored by an inescapable numbness and an immutable passion for fading into nothingness. No creativity has rummaged through the abused, decaying hallways of my mind. No sense of motivation has possessed me, no artistic calls to action. I have been existing in a twilight state of gnawing nothingness; incapable of actually living my life and forging some sort of purpose to make sense of this nightmare of existence, but still not motivated enough, or perhaps strong enough, to end my life. That's all to say, I haven't been able to write much for a while. I don't have the passion, I don't feel much of anything, and I don't have the will. But, despite it all, I did manage to sporadically write this short poem that is likely just as nonsensical, ridiculous, and useless as the rest. I forced myself to cut this one short, I have a few more lines and a few more ideas that are just barely grasping onto life in my pathetic skull - but I will use tho...

 I don't have much to say. At least for now. All I know is that I'm not sure about this poem, I'm not sure if it even came close to what I planned to write about, or if it came close to articulating how I feel and how I've felt. I don't actually want to drown, that would be an awful way to go. But I constantly feel an immutable pull to sink into a totally silent, oppressively dark, weighted oblivion that saps the oxygen from my lungs, the thoughts from my brain, the blood from my veins, and cradles me into a welcoming pit of nonexistence.  Drowned Slow-motion convulsions A despondent, resonating drone Dwelling beside a whale carcass’s masticated face, Tar-like eels slither  In and out of gasping wounds Domineering isolation A chasm of consuming hollowness In the lightless, weighted depths of The necrotic ocean  Of run-off hospital waste I’m sinking to the bottom of Anchored by the many knives lining my back Cascading legions of vestigial organs, Harvested from feral...