Drunken Singularity

Drifting up the street then down these all too

familiar steps, but still bound by the bowels.

There is no beat to this century, no

post-modern fragmented plurality, no

logic, nor even justification.

There is only a beat to this heart, and

it has no rhythm.

Gradual Deterioration

the blackness breathes in then out-

assumptions about death

 

the heart is beating slow, but hard.

and shades for eyes keep shutting,

 

not out of a want to sleep,

but in some manic sort

 

of resistance to artificial light.

freezing regardless of the temperature.

 

remembering a childhood friend

stomping on a baby turtle.

 

the muscles let go and so,

thoughts flow straight no more.

 

howling wind mirrors speech internalized.

(if only it was eternalized)

 

bowels empty again,

with no command.

 

and they say animals were made

for our amusement.

 

Piecemeal Existence

each tendon

in detached heaps

flesh on burning pavement

 

you are not insane

pulling on your own intestines

another skull caved in

 

burnt out cars and broken glass

a bellicose shard in bowels

humans selling emotions

 

liquidate the language you create

leaf through the solid waste

writhing in oceans

 

beginning and end

both melded gates

your fetus saw your corpse

 

the waves they flattened into strings

and continued on their course