Always Untitled

I wrote this a while back. It was born to be read aloud, so clear your throat and breathe your voice into it. Let me know what you think.


Cracked
wide, Spilled
pride, White
lie, Justify.
Set in motion,
To be out of
Proportion, i
Rest and wait,

Exhale

Inmate of
A different sort,
Hurts my belly
When I contort,
Wrap my skin
Around your corpse,
Call it love,
Call it force.

Vigor, vigor,
Exhaust.

My mornings are
A stale aftertaste
Of vomit
And Winston Cigarettes
A dead man drags
Himself
Into the kitchen
For black tar coffee.

I do not speak to dead men,
And they do not speak to me.

I dream of a bed
With sorbet sheets
Soaked in sweat
Where I can catch
My sleep in a
Butterfly net
Instead of wrestling
With rotten bellied
Moans and
Groans that echo
Through dimly lit
Hallways and stick
To the red carpets
And then to the bottom
Of my feet leaving
A filmy residue
On the soul.

Despite the furnace,
Here it is always cold.
The kind a hat cannot help,
Or a sweater
Or a crochet blanket
My great grandmother's
Sister made her
That I wrap around
Her crepe paper skin.
She sleeps with wax earplugs,
So she sleeps with sanity
Even while the decay
Filters through her vents
From the blood she delivered
Watching westerns
In the next room
Smoking his life.

Cracked
wide, Spilled
pride, White
lie, Justify.
Set in motion,
To be out of
Proportion, i
Rest and wait,

Exhale

Cracked
wide, Spilled
pride, White
lie, Justify.
Set in motion,
To be out of
Proportion,

Vigor, vigor,
Exhaust