sun and demons pour into morning
as I exhale the embers of slumber
my heart's rusted boundaries
trembling, eagerly whispering,
confessing once again a sharp thirst
for the ***** taste of violence

buildings, sidewalks
kitchens, gardens
cigarettes and souls
glorious rage and innocent flesh;
this scarred logic of mine simply
wants to lash out, to harm
and it stinks of insanity

toast and a crisp suit: my disguise
imaginary fantasies, secret and angry
form in this melancholy, useless routine
something is missing— constantly —
but tomorrow may deal me
a more hopeful hand