I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.

They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.

I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.

Gotta gnat wing floating in my apple drink

I stare...

Figure a body's
Gotta be here somewhere,
might be tasty,
might be a treat
for me to eat.

Gotta 45 and a shovel and a Real ***** upstairs...
I reckon blood would spill out everywhere
might be pretty
might be messy
but nothing I can't LICK
right up...

The shower curtain music, it calls us to the edge, it pulls us by our throats until we slip until we fall and drop
and choke

a sweet soapscum fix

a sweet rifle on the porch by the pigs
voices from the bucket
where chemicals are toxic and
it's back to the bathtub (without those rubber grips)
and it's BACK to the BAR to give a *******
or BACK to the swinging sling of shame
or BACK to that GNAT wing for fine drinking
more CONVINCING to the dark god when he
s l i p s .s . s. s...
on that soapscum fiX.