we all want to see the dead body.

you might be thinking Im full of ****,
but look at how we pour over
one another's work;
so close we should taste blood in our mouths.

we need to stare into the bluish-grey face
of death so we dont putrefy in our
bathroom mirrors every morning.

we need desperation,
we need pain,
we need a tinge of the fight's futility
being realized.

most important of all,
we need to leave it where we found it
and never speak of it again.

we ALL want to see the dead body.

Cherish that being scared of the future feeling.
It’s just one snare hit on the drum track of some wack ****
you slapped together in mom’s basement on a 8 track sold at her estate sale
and bought by a soundcloud rapper who will just delete the ****
to make one of his lame *** songs.

Youth burns like the oil in old lamps.
Only ever slow clap when it’s the most out of place.
Fold up maps and toss them out rental car windows.
Laugh like a savage drinking blood of his cold axe blade.

It will be ok.
This isn't as much of a battlefield as you're painting it out to be.

Although the carrion still circle overhead though so...

This is all the narrative
of some disillusioned author
who conceptualized it long before
he started missing his deadlines
and drinking at breakfast.

All of it.

Everything.

Every morning I try to coax
the End Times out of a single second.

So far I've only managed to slip
between minutes lost to watching
the coffee *** fill to it's brim.

Little victories.

Fiddles played while any and all mystery
falls on bent swords,
you can hear the sadness in the notes
as they float between the oxygen molecules.

Solitude is an honest friend most days
while others it is another bent blade
awaiting my laziness.

I sleep standing up or running in place
so jokes on it.

Abraxas in the bathroom mirror,
I am not here perpetually.

Krakens in the coffee creamer,
"here" is a relative term.

Massive is the pile of things
I'll never get around to touching,
my relative's calls are all forwarded
to voicemail.

Worry is a meal all it's own.

Prost to the dreamers too awake
for their own good.

I see you.

These doors don't open so easily
so I drink when even the tiniest
of shafts of light are beaming through.

Nothing makes sense,
everywhere is a dark room.

I see you until my "one-too-many"
weighs heavy on my eyelids
and my glass dances across the floor.

I need to get out of here.