the echo that defines the abyss

I wake up at one thirty
then I forget to eat and and fight myself
the evenings are prettiest: I drink
and watch hero movies in which heroes
follow a direction

the echo that defines the abyss was originally published on Meandering home


Toothache :)

I want to write an ugly poem about
it that is fully artificial
a temporary edifice in broken verse
I want to reinvent every word to prey
and rape the makers of my pain

I want to kill the little man who reads the pain to me
turn off his sound and wait and see
and then kill also, his comedy

Toothache :) was originally published on Meandering home

do you know a name? (parental guidance advised)

every Monday i wake up with with a pain that i am not allowed to call pain
some subconsciousness has conspired to destroy whatever vital ambition

i hate this fucking show but i am not allowed to turn it off

week by week my life is rotting away
i have lost all interest and inspiration but i still get it up

so neither am i allowed to call it a depression
do you know a name?

do you know a name? (parental guidance advised) was originally published on Meandering home

Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé

The hatred of my hatred vindicates me:
I am still a consciousness
in and of the world, death foreshadowing
in all of its tissues

My body tortures itself
I must watch, I watch
pain is no measure as my spirit is gone
this is not suffering: I am an automaton

I don’t want to wait
while life flees from me
like a scared rodent flees
from bigger rodents

Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé was originally published on Meandering home

Cum granu salis

There is the commitment of a slow suicide inside my mouth
flaring nerve tissue makes me a beast of seconds
foregone my extravanganza, the wordsome Walpurgnis Night
of wild hue candelabras burning into the popliteal
intimacy of progress – relinquished

Swearing and sweltering I lock myself in debasement
reddish eyes sore at glaring screens a mind wants
closure phosphorous burns at the inside of my gums
two heavy arms lie on this black dusty keyboard
fingertips are punching through with fierce patience
dictating the gangrenous trace of my existence
into my fucking laptop.

It is time for a salt rinse.

Cum granu salis was originally published on Meandering home