I'm thinking about rhyme and meter
but also my kidneys and my liver.

The nation-state and the failed state
and whether killers should be executed

or forgiven. Meditate on this: Thy
will be done. Do what has to be done

don't ask why. Clean the dishes and the house.
Will I be left to my own resources

or will all be given? Nevermind
what you can't imagine. Living's

life's priority. Friends are merely friendly,
they're in the majority. Loneliness

is the default position. Rain happens.
We supply the reasons.

How do people process their lives without art?
By caring not.

Ignore
yr autobiography.

In olden days, if you couldn't stand to ***
the family buried you under the pecan tree.

Up to my knees in the Atlantic,
I am a hemisphere-long
chain of molecules
away from your wintry world.
as I float in melatonin,
your feet are on ground
that I cannot touch, and
as the hourglass sands shift beneath me,
as once-weld rocks carry themselves in the current,
I wonder if our feet
will ever be on the same sort of solid ground.

All this praise is a slow poison which cripples under my skin.
You can not see and can not feel
  but you will see its appeal.
It dazzles the one who lays its eyes upon and
glances surfaces by its arrival.
Oh and
oh and
oh and
oh how i grovel upon its arrival as it may gesture empathy but it is not.
i slowly decompose in its sedimentation.
It is a disguise.
A disguise.
One must not fall yet i fall.
I fall and fail.
Fall and fail.
Fall and fail.
Fall and fail.
How many times has it been?
Since i've felt this eradicating feeling from my core.
Has it been moments ?
Days? months?
years?
My whole existence?

So, this spider was crawling up the wall,
The wall, which had its cosmetics coming off.
The wall, which was mum.
It had seen much.
I was there, under this cursed ceiling fan,
Which was creaking monotonously.
The portraits and the tapestries,
With the rusted nails and hooks under.
The sedimentation of soot,
On the walls,
On the ceiling,
And on the pictures.
All silent,
Dead silent,
Except this cursed ceiling fan.
The ambience,
Was in its nothingness.
As if, they were looking at me in awe,
As if, I were a trespasser.
Unanticipated, I heard rumblings,
And chantings,
And phrases.
The wind in the room suddenly came to life.
The Air, spoke something into my ears,
Something unintelligible.
The frequency went up,
And up, and up.
Ultrasonic vibrations, were those.
The portraits glared at me,
I was becoming anxious,
As well as having eerie feels.
My eyes glued on something,
Something creepy.
I remember,
How four score and seven revolutions of this planet back,
My 16 year old friend had perished in this very room,
Under this very cursed ceiling fan.
Now, not everyone can live for a hundred and three years,
And remember an incident.
Oh, and yes, my eyes glued on my own portrait...

...We do exist,
We defy science.

tie up, covet space and
wind wound round to
collect all thrown away.
  this is the gutter that seeps;
  this is where my sedimentation begins,
  pure, anew:
the base culvert of societal demands,
a miserable brand name:
i curled inside the hollow inside of
you devoted to my coveture. all just

false lashes. i can
read into nothing, too. i
can subsist like the
consistency, consumption or
delegating i. this destitute
diplomacy. i can
let go without blinking.

  or at least, i would've wanted to.
but
  you know better. with
  teeth, you read desperation
  on the architecture of my lips.
a hand cast
  a shadow on me to show some
  substance. bare fangs and
  open up. new space unfolds.
  with clarity, i pretend to see.

i can be patient,
but plans fall apart.
  i can't wait forever.

when she speaks her voice oozes.
humid, sticky, heavy like
fog. i beg her to talk and it bleeds into me,
seeps into my pores. cocoons me in sludge.
i feel her yellow teeth sink into my skin and i feel my fingertips buzz,
i let her tear into me. i sigh into her canine teeth like
they’re the rim of my bathtub.

i feel her scraping the filth off me,
layers of sedimentation in
bacteria and saliva.
it collects under her blackened fingernails and
pools around the edges, soft,
revolting. she peels off my epidermis and my
blood rises to the surface, basks in her presence,
makes me dizzy in its hubris.

i feel all of her, i feel her teeth grazing my
small intestine and i muster a whimper.
aren’t quick deaths supposed to be painless?
like ripping off bandaids or
snipping umbilical cords.
i admire the holes she’s left in me,
tracing their edges, treasuring her bite marks,
realizing that this is all she’s left me with.

she gave me the privilege of a shallow grave,
sticky with topsoil and my own fermentation.
i become aware of my body, all my ridges,
open wounds, angry with infection,
******* liquefied tissue, cellular debris,
pus-filled and trembling.
i make friends with the maggots.

i press on my gashes and watch decomposition seep out of my pores,
i feel my new friends feeding off me, my skin hot with embarrassment from all the attention,
and i hold my breath just to feel the strain of my lungs.

they work their way up to my jaw, giving me soft kisses down to my dermis. i think of her one last time, and how she was too soft,
too soft and yet brittle and harsh and
alarming. i think of her body, all of her parts conjoined with
scarred lacerations and freckles.
i feel her eyes dart over what’s left of me. i feel her breath on my skin.

i ask the larvae if i taste sweet.
they assure me that im rancid.