Erythrocyte

Would I burn out my throat

If the solvent were assured

To take nothing but my voice?

Mud well passed the knees

My primal belly exhales

The fascist grit,

The necrotizing erythrocytes

No one wants to heal

From the inside.

 

My hollows are deep

Echos scamper from

The barge of my throat

Who is the source

Of these recursive screams?

Is it one of us?

 

Death is not always obvious

But it is persistent.

Sometimes a ghost

Is just a ghost

Sometimes it’s remorse

And nothing spoils youth

Like remorse.

 

The rudiments of dreams

Blister behind my eyes,

Those ungodly windows

There is much in this life

That is only supposed

But if not for imagination

I wouldn’t know anything at all.

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