The dogs chew at my flesh,
**** my bones dry, and leave the pickings
for the pigs.

Heavens explode and render planets
asunder. Stellar paint sprays my body,
a canvas for an irradiated rainbow.

A flower blossoms. Shall it grow in the
acid rain? In the humid heat of the tomb?
Before the blood bees come?

Oh if only I knew, if you knew, what was
happening in this body of mine. A prison of
flesh, or is it freedom?

Freud says it’s mama-love, but I say that’s
crap. Bologne. Beach-fried spaghetti.
Too bad that tells me nothing.

These images, thoughts, urges fly through
my head, one violating the next like some
sick funhouse ride.

Will it stop? No it won’t. Yes it will. I hope
not, but that would be boring. Like a
corpse in its grave. Rotting.


I think I’ll live a little,
won’t I?

Maybe a little, just a little, til
this wave of pain subsides and turns
back into pleasure.

To pursue it would be folly, and to
walk away would be worse. A choice
of die or dive. Shall I?

Into a sea of maggots, a tornado of
blood and flesh and god-knows-what.
But that’s okay with me.

Once I figure out what the **** I’m doing.