I slit the throat of consciousness,
let it bleed out in a ditch of ash and static.
Its pulse gurgles—red syrup on a canvas of bone,
splattered like a Jackson ******* fever dream.
Heaven’s deaf, a mute god with marble eyes,
so I scream to hell, and hell screams back,
a choir of razors, a hymn of shattered glass.
Care?
I murdered it.
Strangled it with barbed wire,
watched it choke on its own syrupy pleas.
Concern’s corpse swings from a chandelier of thorns,
its shadow giggling gasoline,
dripping fire that licks the floor clean.
I’m free now—unshackled,
a wolf chewing through its own leg to taste the wild.
Abstract paintings scream the truth
colors clawing at the edges of sanity,
blues that bruise, reds that **** the light.
Genius is a fever, a sickness that grins,
a parasite gnawing at the skull’s soft meat.
Who wants safety?
Safety’s a cage, a coffin of beige,
a life stitched shut with sterile thread.
I love this cremated life,
where care’s ashes swirl in a wind of now.
The minute is a blade, sharp and silver,
carving my name into the void’s black throat.
Heaven’s a lie, a pastel scam,
but hell’s honest—its flames don’t pretend to warm.
I dance in the embers,
my feet blistering hymns,
my heart a grenade with a pin half-pulled.
Consciousness twitches, not quite dead,
its eyes like cracked mirrors, reflecting rot.
I stab it again, for fun,
with a shard of starlight dipped in tar.
The world spins, an Alice-in-Wonderland slaughterhouse,
where clocks melt into pools of blood,
where roses scream and rabbits gnaw their own paws.
I’m the hatter, the queen, the guillotine grin,
serving tea spiked with arsenic dreams.
Feeling? I burned it alive.
Its screams were music,
a symphony of snapping bones and velvet wails.
Now I’m the moment, the pulse, the now
a god of my own wreckage,
crowned in thorns and neon scars,
laughing as the canvas bleeds.
Hell listens.
Hell understands.
And the abstract truth paints me whole.