Man In The Radiator

The following ugly regurgitation of words and meaningless nonsense emotions was born from a few remaining scraps found in my previous notebook. Some of it was written as a response to a concert I went to fairly recently. Some of it was written as a response to the continued confusion I feel at the mere facts of my existence. And then what came out of me when I tried to expand on these meager, anemic scraps of vomit seemed to be responses to my latest bout of insomnia experienced over the past week. Needless to say, none of it came together to form anything coherent or good or significant at all. This is a slow waterfall of stomach-bile colored tar that has leaked onto the screen and forever stained this particular page. That is all.    Exorcize All Thought Dreams and ambitions all tied up in a noose Hanging from eroded, sea-green steeples Rising above, crooked and careening, From the endless ocean of our shared shadows Your blood pools underneath my nails, You are not forgotten.  Your

 Time doesn't fix anything. It's all inescapable and impossible to stop. My brain is in a murky soup of lithium and whatever the hell else they have me on now. At night it makes me lightheaded and dizzy, I'm starting to struggle to see straight. During the day it makes me feel nauseous and nonexistent, flickering through an invisible and painful schism in reality. My mind is elsewhere, my creativity is gone, I'm trying to hold on to something here but it all goes away. I don't know what I'm saying anymore, here's a new poem.  Let This Be the End What is this thing That is thinking of me? What is this thing That is creeping from within my bed And making crimson fountains From my limbs?  What is this, Swelling wildly  In the maelstrom of my gut? Engorging my veins  And growing out from my chest Like anemic opium fields  With weeping decapitations Weighing down the spindly, blackened stems. What is this voice  Drowning me under Smouldering waterfalls of poisone

 It has been a little while since the last piece I finished. My brain has been plagued with medically induced numbness that feels borderline inescapable. Inspiration is hard to come by. Within the pages of my withering, stupid little notebook I found an avalanche of nonsense that I tried my best to make some sort of sense out of. Inevitably I added to it, edited it, and mutilated a chunk of it to be left to fester into a different poem on a different day. But for now, here's something new. Something nonsensical.  Something painfully confessional. Something like all the rest.  Death is Symmetrical  Hordes of shattered windows Dead rats, fried and hanging, Blotting out flickering lights, I’m folded over on the floor of the train  Leonard Cohen lowly in my ears Singing of unreachable distant stars  His voice falls into black holes Circulating wildly in place  Where all the passengers’ heads once were.  Waves of mechanical laughter Electronic pygmies  With sharpened twigs and curved bl