Fall 2013
Hypobeastial, inferno.
Scriptual therapy. That's all this is.
Dead in a world of verse and grace and hymn.
Balancing the chemicals, an eroding lobotomy
Art is dead.
The world is grey tones and hyper sharp
The brain killed it.
The brain is mush, mush. Whipped sweet potato.
My fingers feel like psychos.
The joints twist and grind aching acid erosion
Every wooden creak.
Every crack, footstep,
sends my chest pounding,
The walls creak...
Ice slides down my bloated stomach.
My shoulders arch on the bed
neck protrudes backwards faux orgasm.
I cringe.
Time passes.
No ones at the door.
My head itches again, my fingers.
Glass cut screens slime marks buffed skid wax and grey tones
shining fractals in multiple densities skewing lasers curving chemicals
eating away the marrow picking at the tissue
deadpan and grey tones
the ego is infinite and introspection the velveteen mirror reflecting the ego
importance and earnest absorption, the critical mind assuming piety
assuming and searching for affirmation that others are wrong
chemical burning the itching scalp assuming piety
controlling sleep and routine and grey tones
dissolving devolving resulting in the highs and lows
chemical highs and drugging dredging lows; the dregs drug equalized by steady grinding and acid burns
vapid and dead the world is word wood rotten to wrought into rotten too-ripe fallen fruit
slamming doors
