Writing with your guts on the floor at your feet
one last line

I thought I saw the dampest of the rooms, the quietest of them all
a place to thaw out and find solitude

Crystalline castles of crushed candy, cobwebs in your clover,
stone cold sober but I'm lying

Water in a parched mouth like parchment sent south with
letters left sideways

Paths in the patchwork with placid predictions on the possibilities
ahead of us

A rusty hook in your back between the discs, rupturing cartilage,
imperceptible and brisk

The wrong angle and I choke, strangle, hang from a bad angle, clothes-dangle and mangle

Pieces of Pisces carved up like jack-o-lanterns on the front porch

Internally I feel the roaches, ashes on the floor and cigarette butts
sticking to the soles

Plastic deconstruction, reshaped through combustion into the
typical and obtuse