I take it then that dreams on edges are not your thing. Oh.
Hypodermic, macro-nervous, neo-servile fix. A piece of lead in your head or a steel vein instead. This acid’s fire in my mouth and I can feel it eating out. The air is lotion and it’s thick. The ground is water and I’m sick. My holy atmosphere-blasphemed. And now I think I’m Jesus.
Antiseptic, paraplectic, entirely pathetic score. An angry face, a villains’ grimace, the stable hand of dawn. Awake at six to fall back down, skipping midnight, rising noon. Only to reach for the constant in reach which I constantly reach just in time, to replace all the pictures and dreamscapes again before reality fucks with my mind. Angry dull gray is an angry dull face and an angry dull mist shrouds my mind. Incessantly vile, it will stay for a while, and refuse to expire with time.
My world is a thick one and heavy with visions of iron-clad disease. My mind’s one distress is a dosage of less than the gallons which constantly press. My life is a full one and drainage from the wreckage of someone before. A person who lost and paid in full and their face turned pink-hot in rage.
Sterilized, fertilized, cauterized wound, it is seeping. My arms fill with pus, my fingers drip green, and infection is spreading; it eats me alive. I stand to the sun, on my face the flies fly away, leaving eggs. In the meat of my cheek, their white babies will seek, to devour, to digest, to accept them to my best ability is all I am capable of. Frozen fingers crack to bleed, feeding all the maggot seed. I bite them, I bite them, I taste them, they eat me. I cannot hope to win as the purple flows my skin and in shards and pretty shreds it slips away. Falling to my knees, feeding my disease with the endless mounds of shit I roll my face in, lick and spit. My mouth is full of waste, the ants are in my hair, the vultures, with their bloody scalps, eat my eyes and pluck them out. My skin moves from below. The bugs refuse to go. I am now their home and I’m forced until I’m gone. I’d like to lick my wounds and start again. Sober up before I die and grin at the truth before my eyes, even as I recall why I ever poisoned out my life, and grab the quickest fix I see. The hypodermic reality, the macro-nervous, neo-servile, antiseptic, paraplectic, sterile, fertile, cauterized religion of a brain inside a code. An elemental, uneventful, undernourished, ever-cherished, enigmatic, aromatic essence of a man. And it’s all the same again.