Overally Long Poem Subjecting Myself to Reliving the Same Misery, Over and Over Again.

Writing anything as of late has been nigh impossible. August has become an increasingly difficult month in the past few years, and it has only proved to get worse. Too many reminders of things dead and gone. Too many opportunities to cast myself into the shadowed regions of all the memories I am trying desperately to repress but conversely want to hold dear to me forever more. There's nothing to be done, I've said that many times before but it only becomes more and more inescapably true the longer my life drolls on for. The person I keep unintentionally writing about will never read any of this, and likely couldn't bring themselves to read any of this - and I don't particularly blame them. I have to stop sometimes and realize that a huge reason why I even publish any of this nonsense online for anyone to see is due to a vain and idiotic attempt to inadvertently reach out without actually going through the horrific folly of actually contacting them. It's pathetic. And it's useless. But it's an addiction, and I have to accept that I suppose. 

Anyway, there are more pieces of writing I am currently working on. One is a short story that is slowly coming together and will surely be ridiculous and miserable. The other is another poem I wrote in tandem to this one. Sort of about a dream I had that involved a visual of Nick Cave standing above me as a decaying, wrinkled, balding, and anorexic-looking living corpse. He spat some sort of vague advice in my direction, and I believe in the dream I was writhing in a field somewhere being eaten by worms and tiny birds. The following poem is not about any of this, I'll probably never finish that one. Instead, I'm stuck with the ugly regurgitation seen below. What else is there to say? 

 

Abandoned & Addicted 

Temptation ghosting

Crawling in the miasma cloud 

Of your diseased absence 

Choking and rifling through my pores

With a philosophical rot,

Towards the nowhere I inhabit

With shorn and snapped legs,

Mechanical, spidery limbs,

Moving with cold indifference

Meeting me in strained formations 

Like abused flesh 

Stretching and rippling together,

Unevenly patterned lump of scar tissue,

Patching over a crumbling mountain range

Of pathetic hesitation marks. 

How will you find me

After you’re prepared for the punished autopsy 

And see me 

As a master of the law of decay 

You’ve touched unto me 

All those plagued years ago

Embedded in the squirming unclean

Find me scalped and flayed,

Abandonment reformation, 

Governed by a sickness of obsession

Memories suctioned on like medicinal leeches

Birthed out of your injected joints,

My incurable infestation

An invasive species 

Held tightly on by my blighted remains. 

Once our conjoined spit formed fevered little larvae,

Their eyes now aborted

Their minds aflame with fallen constellations

And awash with black mold flooding over

The schism on the second floor,

Growth stunted

Development denied and slaughtered

In the reverse will 

Their shrieks still reach me, 

Can you hear them at all? 

Sharpened shards of long-dead eternity,

Well-executed offerings,

Stitch up discolored fleshy threads
Swaying out from the craterous gash 

Flowering in festering displays

And rimmed with melting marks 

Of your lips empty caresses,

You left smoldering in place of my face. 

With a torn-apart canvas cocooning my head,

I look shamefully back at my blindfolded remembrance

You slouched over, glimmering in pain

An ecstasy of shared demise,

Still longing desperately to drown 

In the river of your veins 

And be forcibly reborn 

As your shrieking, severed tongue.

Committed to the journey through your body

I’m a revolting shred of pinkish meat,

Riddled with malignancy,

Flapping hatred in your wavering mind, 

I understand why you felt the immutable need

To cut me out. 

-

An addiction to frozen brutalization 

My crooked consciousness

Is always yours, 

Denying the flux of rejection,

Ever since you straddled my barren existence

Into a momentary shock of “feeling”

Who could possibly know it was all so insincere? 

-

What’s the point exactly 

In still trying? 

In still writing? 

Your trust spurts from the gills

I grafted onto my wrists,

A fading visage resonating in between bell tolls

And worm-operated heart beats

Fails to ever go away,

Inhospitable influence grease painted

And externalizing all mistakes tattooing the seasons
As they shift in stagnant, isolated normality.

My dependency will never wain

Gnostic dreams of your god devouring me,

Just wait, I’ll be sure to gift you 

With the folly of our remains. 

Detox and depraved, 

Eyes slipping off

My sentimental refrain from your suffering,

No place to hide

As long as I plead for a damaged resurrection 

The charnel nightmares of clarity,

Impassioned pleas of discarding me,

Will never free themselves of treachery

While I scream this haunting out-of-sight

In a prolonged evening of organized assault 

Your memory all but fades

Dissipating into the severed heads,

Pockmarked with fear and jack-o-lantern lights,

Tangled in the shadowed trees,

But I can still remember what your hair felt like

Gracing my scarred skin

Cascading as I casted myself in our draining light,

Joining tongues 

And making love with the knife.

What did you see in my worship?

If you noticed it at all. 

Your crestfallen voice calls forth my knotted intestines,

This sacred, sanguine gut,

Calls me back to the grand guignol

Of ritual self-mutilation

Under the shadows of your painful silence. 

Blotchy failures of salvation from your influence,

At the first faint sign of your voice

Filtering back to me,

I’ll throw away whatever I’ve made of this traumatized wake,

Commit myself to the crushing possession,

Shouts of ignored deliberation, 

Walking back from the exploding sun,

I just want to live in your voice

Once more. 

Helpless, inhuman, fallacy grows,

I can’t stop lying to myself,

Diseased arms pulverized, twist out to me,

Evidence of our possible suicide,

You simply can not be dead. 

Please don’t accept my passing, 

My corpse rocks from the pulsating, pale-red cord,

Take the pen knife to my swelling brain stem,

Part the sea of hypodermic needles 

And tourniquets holding me up, 

And join me inside. 

Find me in anger, removing chunks of my form,

Make way for my planned necrosis,

Bruised, scabbed, and oozing decomp fluids,

Restlessly injecting my idea of you 

Into what little bit of my veins 

Left untapped.

If you come back now, 

There won’t be anything of me left. 

All necrotic and amputated 

From my immutable addiction

All my notebook pages

Are casted off and covered in my blackened blood,

I wish I could feed it to you,

Turn this enslavement to dependency 

Back onto you

Maybe then you’ll think of me,

Even if it’s for the last time,

A minuscule drop of methadone 

Bleeding with your name,

The dreams of you won’t stop. 

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