A triptych or a killswitch?
Collect your pennies, your pleonasms,
your down and out mediocrity.
I am not one of your pieces,
missing or otherwise.
One man’s art is another man’s scourge.
I’ve lived so long in this wobbly sac,
damaged and unbirthable,
a pupa warded against encounter.
I don’t know why I seek solitude
when I have a heart that hastens,
a heart full of pantomimes
and volcanic thirsts.
The moon has many faces
and each and everyone of them bleed.
I have one, unrecognizable
that scraps and scrambles
beneath the mirror’s wintry cowl.
Once my gaze seared with the ghosts of war
now it falters mere inches from the ground.
If you’re not dead than healing is still possible.
When one wound closes another opens
or is it a window I can never remember?
Is it time for bed?
Nose to the wall I think I’ll abstain.
Defiance for its own sake
is just another form of self-abuse.
How much easier would it be
if I had a reasonable perspective?
I hate, I hate, I hate
nothing and no one in particular,
it’s all momentary anyways.
Is there a point to all your gists?
All those gists that tied together
form even more puzzling knots.
Knots or nots, either way
they send me scampering.
Within every wall there is a mouse listening.
He notes my scars, my happenings,
the pepper and vinegar of my subtle deaths.
On the inside I am all raw meat and distress,
a neuron, a moron, a sweet and salty delusion.
I am very disassociated today but I thought I’d let you see the rambling incoherence of my brain struggling to find clarity.