Poetry Experiment of bugs, factories, and continued pain

 This was a poem written in three or four entirely separate, disconnected parts. Some of which were not written as poetry at all but just a massive block of nonsense text that bled out of my desired bullet wounds in my head. Putting it all together does it actually work or make any sort of sense? No, not at all. A failure was what it was always destined to be. But it's "done" and I'd like to move on now. But I can't ever really move on, can I?  That is all. 

Centipede Love

A slaughtering inspiration

Dreams sharing a stretcher 

Under the morphine-dripping tree

Painted marionettes crudely unzip

Bodybag offerings

Unveiling who I am 

And who I’ve always been

Somnabulazing doctors dissect

Finding this barbaric contempt

To be lying and weeping

In all of our blood, 

Large swathes of me left vacant,

Left for operation

Or analysis 

But no one is there,

The world’s been bled

And I can’t remember anything

On this freezing slab

Of viscera and aborted cocoons. 

Exterminator fluids eke out of swarms of malaise

Working overtime 

Drifting like gormless undead

Through the crooked, creaking, abandoned red factory

Where vacuum tubes live with societies of dirt

Rinsed forth with bile, yellow chemicals

And menstruation.

Push the veiny, moaning pale buttons 

Begging to suction the valves 

And shoot the coagulated, screaming contents 

Into my junk sick heart 

Found hanged and gored 

Rejected and unimpressed 

Lost in the shifting darkness,

In the trembling basement of the 

Dilapidated, deserted

Red Factory. 

-

It’s unidentifiable 

It’s unknowable

It’s all losing potency 

And liquefying to rot from my memories,

Kept in blasted open mortuary chambers 

Where bug corpses fight for space.

Stained glass windows smashed

We’re ripping each other apart

Rolling around in the dazzling shards

As I tear my hair out and extract my skeleton 

Out of my human form 

That I’ve allowed you to command and inscribe with scars

Operated on me and left void pockets 

Seering in anthills forming underneath my flesh,

I smash my skeleton against the collapsing concrete

In a total vain pursuit 

Just to see your reaction

A reaction I can’t even remember now, 

It’s all close to vanishing. 

If this is the process of healing,

I don’t ever want to heal.

Keep me toiling with nightmares

In the shadows of your absence,

Line me with your hungry leeches

Force me back into the absolute deepest depths

That I discovered when I first started to lose you.

Throw me into the boiling droplets of time

Spent in horrifically unending sorrow and loneliness

Which pushed me to my futile little games 

Of suicide. 

At least there I am still

Sufficiently haunted 

And infested. 

So vividly accompanied by your ghosts,

Lining my limbs like armies of centipedes 

The memories of our tragically brief union,

An eyeless insect beast

Carving out wrongly perceived symbols of your mock-love

Into my swelling, yellowed bug bites

While I listen to music of empty exoskeletons

Crunching underneath your bony painted toes

Growing ever fainter,

Till it’s gone,

Lost in the exterminator smoke. 

For that’s the final revelation 

The privative, silenced secret truth; 

No matter what happens in my life

And no matter who ends up unfortunately involved, 

It will always end like this - 

It will always end 

With anyone I love 

Turning into a centipede,

A centipede violently exterminated 

To die into the form of a pen, 

To be left in that state for me to use them 

To write with the sorrowful fury and the fumes of memories

Composed of their temporary humanity possessing my existence. 

It’ll all be gone. 

I’m in the Red Factory, looking further inward

I'm an elderly man,

Drowning in crumbled prescription pads,

A man sweating out the scent of decay,

Curling up on a bug corpse-riddled mattress 

Dying over and over again

In an endlessly lonely transitionary plane 

Of an anemic existence.

Words will usurp me 

With their stabbing, sticky procession of spindly legs 

Squirming onwards 

Towards the fated fade into 

Eventual nothingness and meaningless

Squelching at the end of time. 

Insect memories chemically annihilated,

There’s nothing to be, 

But alone,

Disillusioned 

Confused

And intoxicated 

By a vacant, aching,

Unrequited

Infestation. 

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