All the junkies knew each other.
In my hometown.
There weren't many of us.
I should probably be dead.
By now.

Why bother.
Waking up tomorrow.
When it's the same thing.
Same dysfunction.

Always unwell.

Everything is an epitaph
A requiem for my life.

I lay in bed like one corpse
In particular
But, I can't quite get it right.

I lay there being Che on a gurney
His arms limp by his side.
His eyes agape at nothingness
Cause his brains were blown out.

You only got the profile shot.
His good side with no abhorrent holes.

I sit
moribund in my bed
Unable to sleep with light shining
Out of my eyelids.

Me, a snapshot of death.

A soul turning black with pooling spiritual blood.
Bloating and sloughing off
Pretending to be dead.

I just wish it were real,
The annulment of Nolan Bucsis
Forever stuck a corpse in a bed.

Until the rot wafts into the nose of a passer by
And they find me in the ichor
Of blackened blood caked on my linoleum.

I will resurrect.
Every dead thing
That ever did offend someone else.
I will spread it in the barrens
Of isolation
And go mad with the
Implications.
Of everything is permitted,
Nothing is forbidden.

They.
Ruined everything.
As I try to recede.
Into afterthoughts that aren't.
Even there anymore.

No one killed my life.
It just lost its breath.
And everyone who sang that song.
Just became.
Silent.

So now I exist.
As a relic.
Sticking out.
Of the banal.
As an abomination.
Strange and unique.

Wanna watch me immolate?
Explode into infuriating?
Get arrested?
Stomp out my defiance?

And brag.
That you killed that fresh.
Meat.

I wake up
Like
I go to sleep.
Scraping musty cigarette ash
Off my vocal chords.
A coal mine in my black lungs.

An ever present aftertaste
Of mould
Infects me, and I smell

****.

But that's just anxiety.
A schizophrenic smell.
Disassociated in my forgetfulness
I think, I remember
Rarely ******* in the sink.
But, I'm not paying attention,
Caught up in somehwere else.

Violently throwing up a cough
I purge the phlegm.
From out of my lungs-
And.
It's been really thick lately.
Oozing out my viscous soul.
Vomiting tar.
And smearing it all over myself.

With these dark tobacco stains
Pulsating formaldehyde through my veins.

And I'm
Baffled.
By my health.

It's good.

Just a little cancerous grime
Entrenched in my crevices.

You hear crickets and coyotes.
Out there.
With no one else.
For miles.
Secret unknown things.
Happen.
The evidence just.
Disappears.

The hole inside me metastasises into an abyss.
Depression, pulling me in like a gravitational wave.
I am fractal self symmetry
In liminal time.
Crystalline structural regret.
A lattice net of nihilism.
My empty empathy.

I am the metaphysics of melancholy.
The sacred geometry of sad.

That constant self doubt
Burying itself into my fermented mind.
Embarrasses me with reflections of my true self.
The colour spectrum of listlessness
Depression in poly-chrome
Anxious in stereo.

I want to leave wherever I am
In right now.
I want to run until my feet are ground into ****** deformed stubs
As one more blood sacrifice of self inflicted wounds.
I want to flee from the routine of this place into
Another lonely run down town,
Covered in dismal dust.
An oddly familiar place
I hope I get used to.
Before I leave again.

If I run from my memory
With tickets made of drugs.
I won't have to face another disappointment.
Another bad choice.
If I perpetually construct my life
With new place names
New hidden places
And new roads signs.
All leading to maladaptive coping mechanisms.

The paths always lead nowhere
Paved with the regret of missed opportunity.
I hear that faint spectral call of the horizon
And I cry about the setting of the sun
From the perspective of, another, brighter place.

As for promises
To say goodbye.
I make none
And just fade away into the ambience in the background
White noise of passing cars on the highway.
Another couple feet treading a path
Through temporary homes.

I ain't got nothing.
Ta say to ye.

So, listen close.

And,
*** gon.

As the crow flies.
In another direction.

Don't let the tire irons.
Slow you dun.

With blood falling down my face.
I learned that even when.
Your body quits.
You still gotta walk.
Even if you're broken.
You still need to ****.

Go to the hospital.
Be alive.

You just reflect on what it was.
For a moment until.
You leave.

Didn't you want to explode.
Like I did.
Like I yearned.
For a cataclysm.

Who were you that whisked yourself.
Away from my poor circumstances.
So you didn't have to watch me.
Fall apart.

At least.
I guess.  T
That's what.
You told yourself.

And,
me.

I don't mind.

Everyone is temporary.
A single serving something or other.
That I talked to a while.

But,
Got too involved in the fantasy.
Of what I could be.

I have nothing.
To prove to you.
Nothing to teach.

So waft away like a breeze.
Floatsam hovering in a cyclone.
Disappear into the horizon.
As the darkness envelops a kaleidoscopic sunset..

Sad I wouldn't do what you wanted me to do.

As precise as it was in your head.

This is my ode.
To my disposable.
Nature.

And the comfort.
In giving up.

Someone said in a curt cliche.
That
It's a
Cold hard
World out there.
Friend.

You gotta keep your wits about you.
Take the medication,
Drown out the voices with sedatives and
Keep a formal fragile facade of average.
Conform into the agglomeration of normalised behaviour.

Repeat the Nicean creed
Of nit picking normality.

Unfortunately.
I think I only think in cliches.
The soul of the author is laid bare.
And becomes
Destroyed.

Oh friends.
I know.
Self similar sentiment
Is wasted on literary minds.
As my verbosity is limited by my lexicon
That's drying up as we speak.
The creek bed of my creativity
Evaporating.

And,
What am I but average
In ability.

Irregular in mental acuity.
My divine spark
Is this mashing together
Of words someone else
Stoked in a literary bonfire.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Disjointed from the ambient temperature of familiar
In my own personal agoge.
Raised on rusty nails
Tempering my will as
Hard as an isolated diamond.
Ranting to the coal.

And, I found myself
Looking for my rough.

It's where I discovered
Some familiar adage
To regurgitate in an off tempo
Poorly worded poem.

And it's always a sob story they're singing
On the radio.
About the trials of other people.
And their mundane conformity to their ideals of
Triumph and tribulation, scraped off their existential sinew.
Burning.
Curling up their metaphoric arm.

Familiarity in self diagnoed PTSD.

There's
Always a love song they're writing.
With fountain pens.
In caligraphy.
Vague and ambiguous.
A passion everyone feels the same.

But isn't it the desire for a break
From the mundane.
To be consumed in an eschatology.

An apocalyptic devouring
Of logical reasoning.

When they find me out.
As they always do.
As an asymptomatic.
Anomaly.

They'll say,
There's no better torch song than an epitath.
A ****** ballad.
With a sorrowful refrain.
For me, strange and unusual:

Farewell.

Here too often.

Never.

Gone.
Too.
Soon