Friday night loathing;
Sweat, approximately scattered with dreams on my sheets.
My eyes flap open
And graze on a ceiling
Worth staring at, apparently.
Groaning like a hurricane
I drown myself back into purgatory.
I’m gone as soon as everything else is gone.
My fingers dance through the afterglow
Dripping in my hair.
Hues of pink cheeks;
Ruddy background for splattered freckles-
Perhaps slung there by Polluck.
I touch my tender, brand-new tattoo,
A brand for my mortality fetish.
Head resting on my shoulder,
Breathing into places the light can’t touch.
Something else prances on my shoulder too;
Painting down my back with its fingers.
Pleading to please me with a canvas filled with all the colors inside me.
Time stands still as we pass away.
My toes inch towards an edge which used to be there.
Cracking feet, cracked pavement-
Here where the sidewalks end.
Absolutely and safely indifferent towards
Whatever is just beyond,
Whatever is right here,
Glistening in my face,
Pounding against my ribs,
Pending on my tongue.
Dripping wet thoughts
That plaster the unknown
Like a drunken spit.
We are the color of dead fish.
By the thousands
And we smell
Like roach-devoured carcasses
Circling a sewage drain,
To a filter,
To be strewn out of what will be
A middle-aged woman’s bath water.
We cover our faces
Like bearded cavemen.
Etched into caverns
For an archeologist to not recognize,
To write a paper to his superiors
In a masturabatory self-congratulations
About all he has discovered concerning
What it has always meant to be human.
He will never learn the stick figures
Spelled “goodbye” and
Never taste that it was all
Drawn with blood.
I’m sinking on a rotting, wooden life-raft
Leftover Titanic wreckage.
As an antiseptic
For whatever certain end lies beneath me.
As I float down,
The sea above me appears
To be a gleaming glass ceiling.
The ocean softly grasps me
In her suffocating embrace;
Her lips glowing-
Shadows reveal her face
As feral rays of sunshine
Bounce on my body
Between the waves rolling
Like hand-blown marbles.
Water seeps into my mouth
Whispers to my tongue;
“Goodnight, dear skeleton-woman.”
It is ours to rebel,
Or die cold.
Volcanic child of chaos,
Laugh your ash to my lungs,
Scattering what may have been beautiful
Into the clouds that will relieve themselves
In a fit of rain
Down upon the children
And freshly-mown grass.
October trees rustle,
Strutting their caramel-apple colors,
I hear the ends of times muttered
In the static of the breezes.
There it is again,
Spilling hazelnut coffee down my cardigan,
Leaving burn marks everywhere it splashes.
“Looks like you could use another drink”
The mangled branches moan.
It will come to me, I know.
It will come again,
In a glass bottle
And I will again,
Drink in the ceiling.