My wrist is slit,
swollen, bleeding
in varying degrees,
isolated, compounded,
colliding into bruised
bridges as I drag the
blade across my throat,
embracing the sheer
touch of its magnificent
craft, cutting rhymes
intensifying into slashed
songs – ragged, radioactive,
splattering in tight thinning
syllables.  My thoughts are
spiraling out of control,
crashing into wrecked
waves, running deeply
in salt-covered seas,
plastered pipes, chipped
bricks – smoked, shoveled
inside hardened dirt.
I am turning dull, gray,
cracking inside contaminated
caves, closing in compacted
beats.