Stages of Mutilation (ad nauseam)

Never been so sick with self I could taste it in the back of my throat

most like oysters growing algae, and this me, I scream 

and she freezes like a dumb deer on the winding dark highway.

Blindly bounding, bound and blind. Why I do mind the interruption!

My way, the high road, widening and re-routing due to corrosion.

Adult servitude has made me more wild than civilized and I despise 

the empty chit-chat, predictions, philosophy of catastrophe and empty

arguments that produce nothing I would swallow, hollow-remember?

I have not made myself clear in years, the only deep lines be

on my face. And my watch is dying, I hear it on my chest at night. Laugh lines. Elephantitis of my wet ware smearing ink and I still think it might work

with some flammable liquid. That is what we do to keep warm.

‡

Never be successful in a lifetime. Have you read any biographies lately? 

The good ones go

to better places, I think...and since I can no longer drink

myself there I swear I will 

I will

I will

I may....I mean to try to explain and this tiny truth laughs in my face,

which is why I should never stare deeply into any mirror

at those crows feet blue lies.

‡

Shut up! I have said, over and under, through and thru synapses

shot in my head. They said; put that voice in a jar, take a walk, 

don't talk to anyone about your crazy ideas, they will die-

Dead. You're crazy ideas, You Are

not the first nor the last to go unlisted, name twisted, dumbed down

held hostage, manipulated, occupied, and easily entertained 

by self-deprecation in all its bold colorless forms. Muted.

‡

You ugly. You can't. You ain't. Not gonna quit. Not worth

a spit, high and dry, my mouth tastes that salty green poison and 

I suck-

What would someone like me possibly do with dumb luck?

I already owe too much interest on borrowed intelligence, a smart curse,

and it hurts

but leaves no mark. SH. Self Harm and alarm bells, my squashed spirit yells, 

You win. I gag at my mocking grin, dripping bile down my chin

I can only hope to lose my inside voice. 

Painting by Yehuda Pen, Self Portrait Muse and with Death (1924) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.