At some point, you get used to it all,
the dull buzzing of a heaving sky,
silicon drops falling from dead clouds,
maroon and lavender moons burning up.
Some days, you can taste the desperation,
clinging hard to your mother’s *******,
but you can hear them through the metaphors,
some knife slicing dark from the night.

They’re still dragging knuckles in the mud,
dreaming of disembodied constellations
painted onto a tapestry made of nothing
and hung up high by sheer willpower.
Some look, hoping it’s still where it should be,
some ***** heaven made of antimatter,
touch it you’ll annihilate it and yourself,
so you leave it be and chew your tongue.

At some point, it gets too much for you,
all that noise dragonflying on a war,
bombarding the rigor mortis of sleep,
sapphire and grey pools of romance.
They don’t **** like they do in the movies,
rituals of sweat drained completely of blood,
martyrs of love framed on the walls,
cadavers in bedsheets, shrouds of Turin.