I have tasted human flesh
From the oven of
Lips and tongue;
Dripping well-dressed
In savory sauce,
To stir me to feast on.

this morning
as i collect the thoughts
we scattered late last night,
i wonder, or perhaps i start to doubt:
why do we always fight?
when did our light—
go out.

the house sits quiet as you sleep,
these days, we're silent even when we shout,
but we had times
of such uncommon clarity—

i weep,
upward following the sweep
of steam rising from my cup of tea,
our love dispersing

"Credit? Debit?" / "Mastercard."
Card goes in. Entering PIN.
BeepBeepBeepBeep. Remove card.
Processing—I listen
to the cold ambient music.
"Thank you, and have a nice day."
"You too." / The cashier sounds sick.
I have nothing more to say.
The same words repeated day
after day. a ritual
antipathetic display
of our common plastic soul–
lessness.

i read therefore i am
temporarily dead,
i flee from life to sentences
of death,
illusory present tenses
dulling corporeal sensations,
complexity replaced
by linearity and pagination,
i have lived a thousand simulated lives!
yet i fear mine,
and the words upon a page
become *****
i am a reader because i am a coward,
slowly by my drug being devoured

When I sleep,
I am awake,
As I wake,
I was asleep,
Wakefulness
is merely seeping,
Of our darkly,
Deepest sleeping.