Word Play

Late Night Moment with My Me

(Depressions End)

Here I am, desperate.
And here I ask, secluded,
“Who the fuck is knocking at my door?”
Silence is my answer.

And still,
Here I sit
with my dead muse sternly fused to my head.
conscious of my every thought.
Narcotic shackles of schizophrenic
consistency pierced through my lips,
weighing heavy on my every move.
Uncontrollable words poisoned and sweet
slobber down the links,
the droplets strengthen and ruin
the different pools each make.
A mirror image of my me.
In my belly squirm the worms of inconceivable
They duel sharp as stilettos
Angry- Ravenous- In a hole-
Never ending- An infectious abyss-
Just like my me.

And still
Here I sit
My cock curled up,
Meat for the beast.
I don’t move,
My feet rooted concrete into the ground
with a disconcerting ease.
My eyes serve my meals in a heated
religious fervor
I shutter with every bite.

On occasion
while choking on shadows and sweat
I want to conduct surgery,
amputate the baggage.
But with all the bloody slop and plop have and done
What would become of my me?

Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.

And still
Here I sit.
Comforted by the soothing easing torment my own
womb provides me.
With babbling giggling idiocy I skip rocks down
my dream day childhood sunny little wet wonder brook,
shinny and idyllic
as I tetter on the brink of black uncertainty.
What would become of my me?

And as I sit.
I burn blue in the snow
and I die with my muse fused sternly to my
Just like my me.

(originally written circa 1994-2002)

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