Putrefaction

Tumbling and twirling
letting out a yawn of the dead.
And he walks dazed and belching, perhaps
inebriated across smiling junctions. With
horns blaring and cars swerving sideways.
All there is- licking carpets in his mind,
craving flesh under a flickering moon.

And he awakes every day
to realise as thumbprints on skyscrappers,
then washed out by showers of the morning-
he's been going through the motions, walking
through the part. To a bloody megrim,
the mirage of tomorrow is a still-born dream.
Maggots crawl in his heart. Like vodoo princess
on a private rampage.

But he crawls
out of bed anyway. The largesse of
deadening resilence is another day.
For starters, a shot of gin for breakfast.
Then he wanders about
to revive a cadaverous soul.
With hollow recess for eyes
and an infinite void in the heart.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 9:47 pm