Cigarette ashes
spilled on the bible,
while violet lashes
intensified my vitals.

I saw the ashes
fallen from the ember,
such an abysmal symbol
staining thy holy center

with familiar cancer dust,
while unanswered questions rust,
until I can’t believe them,
I can’t believe you,

I can’t believe …

but I do.

hear me again
as you did before;
granted naught.

you are the ear
I plead to
under covers
of salt water,
fists clenched
with the whole ***
on the table,
along with
my soul.

make it right.

just make it right.

please.

My mother’s killing my father,
and my mother’s killing herself,
while I rot from obvious unknown causes.

I like watching them with headphones on,
so I can’t hear the stupid things they say;
the words are always so predictable.

Don’t they look ridiculous?
Don’t we all?
Don’t you?

…

Don’t I?

was much like our first,
my arms reassuring
your every worry,
our lips locked,
welded and padlocked
with the steel
that heaven conceals
at the bottom of a pond
too perfect for those
lacking the Beyond.

My face pressed in your face,
it felt like an embrace
that’d fail to fade,
and years later we
find ourselves in
the same place,
on the last day on earth:
the finale of humanity;

and like our first day together,
we barely acknowledge
there are others around
anyway,

so when the sky comes
crashing down,
we won’t even notice
a difference
in temperature,

with our lips bound
to withstand the sound
of confinement,
and pulverize the lies
of denouement;

and when it is just us left
to waltz over the moon,
you’ll take my hand
and I’ll take yours,
and give those stars
infinite more
encores.

I don’t like this screen anymore;
can’t grasp words like the past,
definitions or lack thereof.

objectives reveling sonically
with objects of sold bronze.

wired tight
with fire’s might,
as squires fight
over who’s
the better squire,

despite there lacking
a knight, or even a lord.

I don’t know what I like anymore,
maybe it’s aversion,
my preferred adversary,
serving our *******.

there’s something itchy
about this place,
something hitherto
I could not scratch.

now I do,
and it just spreads
the rash,

as usual.

there’s come on my sweater
and a knife in my eye;

lid twitches over socket,
fallen out or it will soon;
cancer-infected vision,
come-stained point of view;

ugly and bleached,
rinse and repeat
until it joins trash;
****** laden crash;

it’s all the same,
ply my fingernail back
and feel the pain;

it’ll still be the same;
same smell, same sorrow,

same stain.

Disregard your playing cards,
leave them in the burning fields;
they were fixed from the make,
anyway.

Tear away at your Poetry,
and bury the remains beneath
your weeping willow tree
where the black orchids grow.

Turn back into the fog
to the only home you know;
as opaque as your prefer:
blindness lacking cost.

Abandon the appropriate apparatus;
never to be fit for this dead sea;
it’s all disproportioned,
anyway.