I can feel it dripping
Down my throat
Taste it tainting
The water supply
Sometimes it sticks
Festering through my lips
To catch a whiff
At all hours of the day
It sticks to your clothes
Like cigarette smoke
In the floor and the ceiling
Asbestos and mold
Printed as the watermark
On every page
The wriggling tongue
Behind sealed lips
I’ve been carrying death
The most fashionable
Of face piercings
A skin condition
The cigarette bud is crushed
Into the creases
Of rotten Would.
I can see my face
Resembled in the ash
And know we are
One and the same.
Though I more closely
Imitate the insect.
Rummaging through cadavers,
Squirming boils burst
at their own
Dug deep into the earth
To taste the red hot
Of my species
Under so much weight,
I begin the great ascent
Knowing it’s likely
I’ll never see
The green surface.
It’d be easier to accept death,
But what’s the point
Of a bug like that.
It doesn’t matter how my words resonate
For jagged on course
It doesn’t matter how I crease
Like dog eared pages
To build your empire
You’ll only spend it on walking wife-beaters, and PBR
You were meant to be hung on the wall
For when inspected
You realize they’re painted with pricked fingers
crow’s nest hair
Forming a third dimension
Mash muscle and fat to a fine paste
In place of pastel
It consists of the families, daughters, sons
That put them in the most prestigious of museums
At the expense of their own life
Some survive, strutting the streets severed
Wishing they hadn’t
While others out witted
Parting the head from torso
Before parting from dignity
Intestines, pancreas, lungs, splayed onto the street side
Tucked away in decomposing, cardboard coffin
The smell of rot, the squish, poking sticks
Is the mortician as careless with his scalpel as we were with tapering maple?
Money was for the dead, we didn’t care that are shoes were more sieve than show
The second definition of family: to hold a balmy hand until fingers cramp,
and the dark rings under your eyes like lines drawn in the mud.
Now every time I see a cross I look both ways
How much tragedy, omniscient narrator with the spot light, is enough to satisfy you?
“Don’t go out after eight. You don’t know who might be running the streets.”
Your reflection in their glossy eyes,
Will stain the sclera for years
All sins originate from then. That sweltering box, like a finger held over a lit match, they say the first three days are the hardest, the single drop of heroine, polluting gallons of drinking water. I can’t last these three days.
Can you deal the cards, from behind the dashboard?
Next to that hospital bed, sheets stained, nurse in the hedge maze of halls twiddling the phone cord, anxious for the ghouls response.
I stayed up with you until the sun sat in the center of the sky,
the spotlight for your final monologue.