Fetid skin,
taut,
   and splitting.

Organic treacle
       seeps through the cracks.

Unending pain.

Why?
           the question floods across your mind, Why?

A moments pause
      Then a reply,

*Because you deserve it.

We are rotten now.
You are rotten, moldy, putrid with disease.
I'll separate my pristine state from you.
Get the **** away from me.

You are rotten now.
You are contagiously, disgustingly rotten.
I'll pretend there's still some use in you,
Throw you in the compost, forgotten.

You are a memory.
Overripe, painful, noxious.
You were a part of me.
Infecting, stinking, rancid.

This is my goodbye to you
This is the routine compost.
This is how I say, "We're through,"
This is how I let you go.

Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality  
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm  -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out

Trapped in this story.
Repeated history,
that's more misery than mystery.
Perhaps I'll leave this crap one day
Refuse to stay and go away,
but it wouldn't be long
before I'd collapse and relapses back into it all.
Enthralled in the fresh mesh,
across my rotten flesh.
Unable to even crawl,
as it sprawls around me
and develops me into something grotesque.
Against my best protest,
ignoring my distress,
until I become something I detest.
And all though this picturesque depiction of my depression
may seem extreme, like a bad dream
In reality it stems from a belief
that nothing ever gleams in darkness.
Regardless of what they say, darkness is artless.
Nothing more than a rotting carcass.
Harmless and heartless but not homeless,
because it's the same carcass in every ******* story in this never ending circle.
The only real consistency in the ever changing story.
Me,
internally rotting away for an eternity.
Trapped in this story.

Brush your teeth please
Do something listerine
Save up for a dentist
Or rip them out and get dentures

Totally inconsiderate
I think I'm gonna *****
I don't know whats worse
That or no deodorant

Why do I have to Poker face
Just to save you embarassment
This isn't your island private
Your on the train in public

Your space bubble is broken
I'm just about choking
Dam you good manners
I must behave and be decent

First world issue I know
A bit of a low blow
Now I write about it
So I can just forget it

Each day, my rotten flesh
Is being picked away.

The scabs blossoming
With their rosy red smiles,
So crystalline
And bright.

And as I shed my winter coat,
The sad mass of green goo,
A figure, raw and sick,
Is left behind.

From thick
To thin.

Now ******
And bare,

Somehow this spring breeze
Is more like poisoned air.

I can taste the licks of flame in my mind,
Just barely; I cry. The sour flavour corrodes
My tongue, telling me I can't continue
To suffer the wrath. The scent kills me,
And I continue to defy what is constantly
Whispered in my fragile ears.
The sound of the bitter cackling of demons
Burns the wings of butterflies that inhabited
My entire body. The smoke from the charred,
Powder-white wings of moths,
Parasites, kiss the scares and open them again.
The desire to feel the pain consumes the spindly legs
Of butterflies trying to escape, nearly dead
By fire caused by my own hands.
My fingers shake, I am cold.
But my messages are not clear anymore.
I am no butterfly on fire.
They are all dead.