A New Strange Poem of Unwanted Self-Reflection; I think I've forgotten how to write.

 

Insignificance

I am untangling my Armageddon

I am falling through space 

With arms outstretched as a suffering mockery 

Of directionless martyrdom

I am the celestial smoke stacks 

Billowing out in flesh-pink tufts 

Riddled with shifting geometry 

And writhing veins 

Imploding in on itself 

Shearing my skin down to the bone. 

I am not my remains 

Biological metallic instruments 

Hidden underneath my structure, torn away 

Directing hatred

A blossoming bramble of gritted teeth 

And violated doll heads

Rising out from stolen burial plots 

As I approach my collision,

The stars yawn 

Earth pitifully opens up 

There is no finality

That I would be worthy of. 

I am the death of my father

He is his own undoing

I am the birthing in reverse

Lungs drowning 

In expired amniotic fluids 

Muscles tightened to the brink of eruption

Sliding the primordial scalpel,

Long since rusted and dulled,

Through the pockmarked jaundiced belly

Of matriarchial rot. 

I am the end of the line

Smothering the last whimpering embers 

Staggering from all burrowed infestations 

Guiding this parade 

Of hereditary horrors. 

I am the death of whatever bore my name;

Infant spider, limbless and floating

Nuclear river carrying the swaddled amputee 

Analyzing the multi-colored, folding sky

I am the dying flecks of skin

Falling in sand dune clumps 

Dragging the spider 

Into annihilating depths. 

A dreamless sleep unfolds to me

Saying my name is nothing, 

Shaky hand of hesitation 

Fails to etch the message 

Past road bumps on my wrists. 

I am the shorn mask

Snapping jaw tendons 

Show the ugly machinations 

Fighting their way out. 

I am the suppressed cry for help

Rising through designs of insect surgeries

Mother spider spills 

A stairway of black eggs,

They roll my words up

Etch them into the sun

All meaning atrophied away 

Wet paper mache fog

Angels’ wings crushed, they abandon 

Gone and fitted into rigor mortis plaster molds,

Crucified extremities uselessly burning

Enitting from the violent suicide

Of every word I’ve ever written.

I am the path ahead for myself,

Obliterated,

That was never really there. 

It’s not meant to come together.

I am the horizon eroded

I am the unrecognizable sprawl of human remains,

Coloring the endless highway. 

I’m deafened and torn 

By collisions of hot metal,

I am the air sirens still blaring,

Strangling little orphaned girl

I am still working towards

Cutting out all of your hearts. 

Alone with my decision,

I rather give up now 

Than continue in self-mutilating attempts 

To gift significance

Into this paradoxically bleeding lump 

Of emptiness. 

I am,

And I will never be more. 

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