Untitled.

Written: 2012-2013 x Edited: 2024

You once told me that imagery was alive in the poise of lit cigarettes and tetanus swing sets
and individuals full of malcontent-

I don’t give a s**t about syllables performed by the spit-black plaque of teeth on tongues,
I want to be judged by the metaphor of a thousand blades of grass in the death of December,
or infected sutures at an Apathetic’s Anonymous meeting, or the fact that
neither of those two ideas have anything left to teach me about living or the lack thereof.

Speak when spoken through and I will oxygenate you
with all the confidence of habitual indecision, so long as the allures of decency
manage to beseech the sand crusted gates of enamel that shiver between watery thighs-
our muse is fickle this time of year.
Abuse the consonants of apprehension at your discretion,
just bear in mind with tired eyes the crisp-cracked lips you picked
the fruit of eloquence from, because I’ve already forgotten the meaning of life
and I have no intention of remembering why I ever cared in the first place.

I want to peel back the split in my fingernail until there is nothing left of me but
calcium deposits of narcissism
and the honey-laced words of all the cynics
I killed.

Reviews

[Eligh Lane]

Lyrical but dark. I like your writing style.

[I.F.W. Davis]

Thanks- I always here music when I write something, guess that carries over heh