Title Number Six

Second Hand

No, Never

Self-Preservation Coma

(Con)fusion

Post

Anterrabae

Introverted and crucified;
Post-apocalyptic daydreams of Hell
A consequence of life.
A hair in eye.
Helene is still struggling to stay afloat.
A knock on the door
Or am I just dreaming?
Voice trembling;
Hands with pale flesh
And neatly trimmed fingernails.
Crop circles and creamsicles.

I am homesick
For a planet that never existed.

In mourning I lie still,
Close my eyes
And scream.

Devotional

Fog / Panic

You are the stuttering mist of breath
From the ghost in my head.
You speak softly in a whisper;
Then scrape teeth against asphalt.
You are the toxic fumes I breathe while trying to escape;
The requiem played
As you spit on my grave.
You are a laundry list of choking hazards.
You are haunted visions screaming in my ear.
You are violent shaking and bloodshot eyes.
You never stop.
You never end.

You never.

The Black Hole Orchestra

We surround one another
In circular exclusionary
Feeble attempts
To wreck the similarities.
We have come to destroy each other,
The disorder and I.
With the intricacies of
A death march
I scream the saddest visions
Into the ears of the innocent.
The innocence replies
With an attempt to eat me alive;
Raw and enraged.
This bloody business
We engage in
Day-to-day
That steals lightning
And only gives back thunder.

Where
Does
This
Rabid
Holiness
Lead?

We assume the position.
Our heads peering downward;
Into crushed lives of boundaries;
Exiting from the conspiracy tombs.

We assume the position
And wait…