scribbling on coffee stained paper,
creasing its corners, wishing to stain
the paper with black ink and
turn all the grotesque pain into poetry
but i've been inured to just stare at
the ceiling. it feels like it's going to fall,
the walls are coming closer, there's
no place to breathe in this shabby room.
yet i'm reluctant to step out with
my fervour body. i'm being swallowed
into the eleventh dimension by my bed.
it rots with the heat of the day, it cries
with the pressure of my body, my
bed is my open casket and there's no
escape in this world so poisonous
yet beautiful.
i spill my veins out. i eat my own
liver and then wait for it to regenerate.
i want to pull out my eyeballs and
cut my ears. i want to bury my brain
and wait for it to rot.
then, i'll twirl and dance like a ballerina,
sing like a primadoona, become your
belladonna. we'll dance on our graves,
dance on your rooftop, in front of the
entire world. we'll dance like madmen,
and dance in the underworld.
