My mother said they say the dead are blessed
but i don't think so,

i wake to my dream's afterimage overlaying
the ceiling;i stay laid in place
envisioning myself
gorged in holy water, purging away any memory
hitherto

but that's just not the way it goes;
Sat here as the vinyl needle scratches the same
  scabs,as a tired revolver—

leaks **** of sound,thick repitidous clouds which
  lead to nowhere and nothing—

a bored, ambient crackle,

  
In the poetic spirit, it reeks of home
  but reminds me I am I, alone

And in the conversing-sense
  it gives me a ******* migraine,

it was one of W—’s favourites
when it's tune was still entact

But alas, it is what it is, outside is a world
i've grown too sore to mingle in
(dare i say a multiform delirium where
  it's both too typical and too unpredictable
((daren't i blame another reason?)))
Regardless,i'll stay inside another day
  
and skim and retrace the life that brought us here
   to **** the time.


If nothing else.