Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

You cut me,
with those sweet dirty dissecting lips.

Shredding every remaining shred of integrity I once believed I had,
you raped my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I bleed,
iodine in hopes that it will cleanse me of your disease,

rinsing coarsely through already torn layers of raw and blistered skin.

Alchemy may claim to turn lead to gold.

But what of you;
you are gifted.

Metaphysically fit,
you remain untarnished,

as you rape my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

I will allow the skeletons to parade up and down this boulevard;
and walk away from this window in hopes of rain.

Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

Enslaved within a world of privilege.
Born into a caste of rawhide bone reconstruction.

Forced to dance for others enjoyment.
Persuaded to serve as not to feel the aching belly of a starving cell.

Languages spoken by the host, which to me seem only foreign.
Tempted by lust withheld for my master exposed.

Chaotic fantasies of a family within the ranks.
By serving you I found my freedom.

Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

Unseen memories lurking in corners,
behind closed doors.
Abuse etched into the ink free remains of my elastic encasement.

Violet streaked vixens, dancing naked.
A circus,
of disease-ridden saviors and meek starved profits.

Lips parched, cracked corners split in two.
Outwardly reaching,
Forever stagnant.

Water must be diluted for me to sip.
While I choke.
Immobilized. Incoherent. Suffocated and still.

Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

Fluttering at shutter speed.
Is it my heart inside my chest,
or my lungs palpitating.

It is my veins.  
Rushing with blood, or collapsing for lack of.

It is my stomach. Eating away its own lining;
Acidic paint splattered across its walls. Whitewashing them
With every sporadic convulsion I feel.

A fortnight,
No sleep.

When I do sleep, I do not sleep.

I am depressed. Unhappy.  Not entertained.  


Questioning every decision I’ve ever made about life,
I inflate with anger.

I think about opportunities passed.

I revolt with envy when I see artists prevail.

I am a miserable fuck brimming with unseen talent.

I miss cigarettes.

I miss cocaine.

Cheap whiskey and grinding my teeth
until 2 in the afternoon when my bloodshot eyes’ll tell you more
than you could ever learn reading my palms.

Fake prophesies of people who never really cared,

and rooms lit up with cheap disco lights and moist carpets.
Perfectly ripened with mildew and sweat and DNA.

The saved lives of unborn infants.

The lucky few.

Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017

A cracked record pirouettes upon its cherry oaked coffin,
Listen closely to the requiem for my ravine.

Can you taste the a’s, the b’s, the c’s,
The spearmint flavor of cool jazz prancing      along       your      tongue.

A eulogy for the mind.
Our memory is not like it used to be.

Light driven through unshattered glass.
Reflecting amongst particles, a burnt hay fulgence.

Before this home, the welcome mat was upside down. An encasement. A confinement.
A rigid sweater, crafted of jagged straw and course hair clung to my skin.

I could never leave. The smell of chemical potpourri coming from that pyrex plate,
leaving the nostrils flaring in metallic bliss.         The taste of frosting.

Same faces entering, different ones departing. Friend on the couch fearing rape,
Me in bed fearing robbery.

A visitor in my room. Masked. Too dark to see.   He apparates from view while I shriek in silence. Alley cats in life threatening quarrel in a deaf man’s yard.

He comes again unwelcomed, I dare this time to challenge.
The drugs are done.    

Heroes are seldomly forgotten.

— The End —