I am afraid of the stench of death,
Rigor mortis,
The sound of my own heartbeat.

I am afraid of things that breathe
Things that can see me, and things that can be heard.
The roughness of my knuckles,
The warmth of my own neck,
And the movement of aimless leaves.

I am afraid of the howl a car makes as it starts,
The pitch of a human voice,
What is hidden beneath a lampshade,
And the sound of fake grass beneath my shoes.

There is no solace from turbidity
Nor respite from that booming entropy.
Leaves are always turning, corpses always rotting,
Dishes left unclean and toenails that go unclipped.

There are turgid limbs and dying calves,
Budding flowers that twist senselessly
Toward the sun.
There is the mist that infects the air
And the suited men who come to **** it.

Asbestos, saccharine frosting, ugly babies
and an unending parade of horrors which present themselves
in my dreams or in busy shopping malls.

So i clutch my heart, wear my seatbelt
lock my doors, count the unending corners,
mark the burgeoning rooms in a hallway,
wash my hands twice with soap,
and pray to a baleful god for my immortal soul and supple skin.