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.