No more of this.

 I feel as if I am possessed by a divine sickness. A sickness with some sort of guiding philosophy far and above my own tired, mute, ineffectual understanding of this existence. This whole month has been dire, this whole year has been dire, and somehow last year was still worse. And the year before that started off in a fevered state of elation and surreal, unrecognizable happiness despite the stress, uncertainty, sickness, decay, and doom that was already digging craters out of my skull and sinking me into planned, conspiratorial oblivion. My words fail, wheeze pathetically, curl up, and die all around me. Reaching out is pointless. Communication gets more difficult by the day. Inconsistently taking multiple medications has turned my head into a mire bobbing with corpses upon corpses that shriek and send the stars down upon me at every step. My words are shattered and this life was never meant to be lived. The following “poem” is an excerpt, an unfinished failure, something I once possessed a great idea for but allowed to die of fatigue and neglect. This is what is left, it doesn’t mean anything. This will be the last one from me for a while. I truthfully don’t want to go on for much longer, but that’s all I can do. There is nothing to worry about. “The key to joy is disobedience. There is no guilt, and there is no shame.” 

Shattered Words

I can not remember feeling loved

The effect of being wanted

A cold chamber of flashing dawn 

Hangs by a lonesome thread

My existence staggers onward in forced isolation 

And amnesia 

Towards any experience of ever feeling desired 

Night’s diseased insects fall around me

And weave another prescription 

To armageddon ideation. 

Yet I remember my various bisected loves

As the eternal snake 

Eating itself in rapturous tears 

My place as the forked tongue

Milling around in your bullet wounds

I remember you heaving, naked, and haunted 

Eyes rolling back into elsewhere and exodus 

In the hotel room

Where stars absently peered in

As the makeshift dollhouse

Crumbled around us 

And the roadkill circled in a festival  

To the severance to ourselves

A commitment to ugly transparency.

And I remember the final shared ritual of self-mutilation

As I pumped more dirt into your blood

As I felt the possession of an unfamiliar smile

As your cigarette scabbed to my gums

As I took your fingers to guide my trembling tendons 

As I saw your vision scrawl across the bloodied pages

Of my perpetually unfinished book.

As we exhumed each other 

As I willingly let your needle blossom in my veins

As the skin-grafted tape deck slid into reverse

As the islands of our swapped entrails

Cauterized and weighed themselves to the bottom

Of an empty, unfathomable sea,

I once again dreamt your dream

Of a black expanding plume of funereal smoke

A wildfire of ruin

In total vortex stasis 

Hovering and perpetually dismantling the frost-cloaked industrial park

Deserted factories 

In the middle of blasted wastelands 

And endlessly assaulting clouds of exterminator fumes 

Producing strange artifacts

Of poisonous targeted nothings

Destructive philosophies

Personally assigned to every last remaining soul,

All artificial chemical birds burrow into their 

Synchronized eyes

Your circulating gloom streams into the fabricated Interzone

And all the bleeding frenzy

Burst from collapsed eyesockets 

Where you cleverly nestled 

The emaciated, shivering, noxious worm

That I’ve become. 

You wake up 

And I turn to see…

Scintillating ocean of insect mannequins

Wrongly shadowed like smashed sundials

All with faces just like me.

Has it always been like this? 

My words start uncontrollably swelling

As if in a corrupted womb 

Tearing forth a new passageway 

Through already strained, makeshift flesh 

While my ghosts wallow

In all the trampled, breathing trinkets 

You knowingly left behind. 

Angelic doll vessels pulsate 

With suits of wrongly stitched souls

Secret bone marrow

And gnawed at photographs

Crying with scrawled black ink

All collapse in twilight pools

In the viscious reflection

Unbound by light

I can see the last time

Your lips departed mine

And misted into wisps of decaying gears and cogs 

Dying time inscribed on your tongue

I fell inside. 

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