It was always about me

You once told me that imagery was alive in the poise of lit cigarettes and tetanus swing sets

and individuals full of malcontent-

 

I don’t give a s**t about syllables performed by the spit-black plaque of teeth on tongues,

I want to be judged by the metaphor of a thousand blades of grass in the death of December

or infected sutures at  an Apathetic’s Anonymous meeting, or the fact that

neither of those two ideas have anything left to teach me about living or the lack thereof.

 

Speak when spoken through and I will oxygenate you

with all the confidence of habitual indecision, so long as the allures of decency

manage to beseech the sand crusted gates of enamel that shiver between watery thighs-

my muse is a fickle b***h this time of year.

Abuse the consonants of apprehension at your neglect,

just bear in mind with tired eyes the crisp-cracked lips you picked

the fruit of eloquence from, because I’ve already forgotten the meaning of life

and I have no intention of remembering why I ever cared in the first place.

 

I want to peel back the split in my fingernail until there is nothing left of me but

calcium deposits of narcissism and the rosy-cheeked words of all the cynics I’ve killed.

Reviews

[Eligh Lane]

Lyrical but dark. I like your writing style.

[I.F.W. Davis]

Thanks- I always here music when I write something, guess that carries over heh