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  Nov 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
Speaking of recurring themes,
these days all of my dreams
display in pallor,
static
salt and pepper gray,
where once they held a spectrum
vivid in decadence.

I won't die screaming, though,
I
will laugh until I
drive someone to violence
and come to grasp the consequences, full,
defined in foreign definitions
I will surely come to understand.
Then, in all likelihood,
wind up screaming, anyway.
soc type thing.
love ya.
  Nov 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
My,
my, my,
what am I doing?

By staying alive,
they're not losing,

but what am I proving,
for myself?

Don't
get me
wrong, I'm not crying --

but objectively,
my fingerprints

remain ever obscure,
don't they?

Digital: I'm a ghost. Lo - Pro.
Analog: I'm not. . .

really present.
  Oct 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
Grind you up into portions.
Serve you up to the horde.
What was
temporarily
yours,
will feed
the meat
of
the future seed.
Sure enough
the scene
before the
excited mind,
the silent mouth,
shall
seemingly go
completely
unnoticed
til the matter mounts.
  Oct 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
Give me brushes and
something colorful
not tested on
a thing
with a heartbeat
and watch me go!
I love me.
I know how
I like      to look.
Think that this
face is
for you?
Think again.
Think that      This Face
is for you      and your. . .
Think again.
Think again.
  Oct 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
Pay green.
All that you've seen
      this      year.
To come. . .
What's to come?
To come. . .

Got black?
Pay black.

Not black?
Get black.

Pay green.
All that you've ever
      seen      or   ever      will   see.
To come. . .
What's to come?
To come. . .

Indication. I'm a bad itch.
I'm worse than that --
I'm deliberate in
the gears that I turn,
year after year.

I'm a depressive *****
in a dark descent
from the spring spearmint
to an autumnal orange,
set in a somber sky,
to a familiar black.
  Oct 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
Mom,

     I'm sorry. Everything about me
you see as wrong, I
see as inescapable.

     Truth be told,
I have never wanted to escape
a thing   but you.

Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry,
Mom,

     I just don't buy into your Yeshua.

Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry,
Mom,

     I wear the tattoo of the sulfur cross.
And I wear it well.
  Oct 2018 Bexis
A Simillacrum
I raise the bone up to my two juicy lips
and I purse.
Here comes the carcinogen, the miasmic smoke,
the old ghost.

But, my
love,
it's not like it
was.

My love,
it's
not like it was.

I pick into the basalt black, like a boss.
I exhale,
mining verses from my vernacular
like
poisonous
metal.

But, my
love,
it's not like it
was.

It's nothing like it was,
and I'm perfectly fine.



In a manner of speaking.
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