exhuming childhood dreams while burying the future

laying on a metal slab smelling of bleach and disinfectant in a windowless room, my skin is perforated, as everyone i come into contact with bites down, tearing long chunks off with dull teeth. revealing a network of veins, arteries, organs, muscles, bacteria, infection, disease.

hollow and bare surrounded by shadows under a single flickering bulb, i am the worse culprit of all. allowing this act of cannibalism, participating, and laughing about it with an open mind and mouth the entire time.

watching with rusted yellowed eyes: bodily fluids pool on the white tiled floor like spilled cola, as they are lapped up by numerous tongues like surgical scalpels with the taste for flesh. gaining strength. gaining closer. gaining answers to questions i will never understand.

mysterious sounds. the pitter-patter. splish-splash. groans. moans. cracking. snapping. heavy breaths. mixed with the whispers and spiders crawling through my ears. sounds like a church choir serenading a coffin being placed in a hole in the ground.

my body is a piece of meat, and my heart is slowing down, as i pick the rest of my skeleton clean.

because anymore, im neither alive nor dead.

im just killing time.

recycling bodily fluids

there is no easy way around it;
someone is going to suffer.

spitting up blood and vital organs
(lungs, heart, brain,)
i pick them off
the soot swirled
concrete basement floor,
and try to brush the dirt
back onto the ground,
but their pink/red skin
is moist and sticky.

i swallow.

the dirt becomes mud,
becomes part of them,
becomes part of me.

i soak the fluids up
with paper towels, q-tips, and circular motions,
then ring them out back into
my mouth.

the translucent crimson droplets
pool, and swish across my tongue.

gritty and bitter.

i swallow.
and try to disinfect my thoughts
with turpentine.

it's not working.

What You Want to Be When You Grow Up

A middle-aged man who is wearing leopard print tights. Touching. Pumping himself in the blue haze of the computer screen, as he watches an eighteen year old in braces shove the head of a teddy bear into the moisture emanating from her crotch. It is not illegal.

A household plant neglected in the shade of the blinds, because your owner never turns the fucking light on since he is working on his night vision.

The violet hair chalk rubbed on the pubic hairs of someone you're infatuated with. It could stick to the dampness lying dormant on the surface of your lips, if only you had the courage you motherfucker.

An undiscovered planet with the most basic form of life. Unintelligent. You can be a good mother.

Hawaii? Or Alaska? Just not connected to the main land.

An eye spinning around in a socket, unfocused. Distracted and disinterested. You would rather look at a video of someone being shot in the head; the wound self-inflicted. Because idle chatter with friends is so captivating, especially when you're not connected to the main land.

Hawaii or Alaska?

A torso hanging out a window, contorting and becoming sore, eventually. Looking at the orange light reflecting off the clouds from the city located behind the mountains. It will skew any observation made about the stars tonight, never coming to a conclusion. Dumbing yourself down. Contorting and becoming sore.

A guilt trip eating away at her conscience. It's your turn now.

A board game misunderstood and complicated. Hands drunk. Tossing little wooden pieces. Gone missing in the carpet. You are losing parts of yourself that make you complete in the process of decomposition. No one cares about ruining this shit for future generations. Not fair. 

The thesis statement outlining his assertion of what it means to have a bad day.

The depression embedded in the lines of a smiling face.

A bed, which never got laid. Unloved. Meditating in the solitude of an empty room. Quiet, finally.

Medication dissolving in a nasal passage. You will clog sinuses as you pin pupils. Fuck the cops.

A missing hand lost in the ass of a male hooker. The ass lined with razorblades, he clenched at the wrong time, you unlucky fucker. Now you can really kick off this pity party right with some 7-up cake, soda, and some fucking balloons. Fingernails coated in waste. Shit man.

A murder/suicide involving an elderly couple. Channeling Chester and Mildred Welebob.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.


Going nowhere.You're all grown up.

Bring the Violence, I’ve Just Converted to Cannibalism

Walking up the driveway you will notice that the front door is open, which is never a good sign.

And the garage door stays shut when you press the grey button on your remote control because the power is cut.

I’m inside. Sitting in the dark on your recliner. Wearing a zombie mask. Fake blood. Missing teeth. Sores all over the face. And glow in the dark eyes.

The mask won Boy Scout Troop 194’s scariest costume of the year in 1999.

No, it’s not Halloween.

No, I’m not an actual zombie.

But I bumped bath salts earlier tonight.

And watched a horror movie marathon.

Which is why I’m dressed this way for the occasion.

When you decide to walk through the front door, you will see the shimmer of silver steel in the streetlight coming through the window. And a note saying, “The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy the head. Destroy the head. Even if it’s someone you know.”

You will round the corner into the living room with the steel in hand. The only objects you will be able to see are two neon green orbs floating in the darkness. They will stare back at you and shrug their shoulders. Because they are telling you I don’t give a shit.

I hope you scatter my thoughts into the creases of leather so my leaking head can ruin your carpet.

If my leaking head doesn’t ruin your carpet, I will rip your chest open like an eight year old assaulting wrapping paper, and throw different body parts into the air like confetti.

Because I know the fucked up shit I am capable of. 

And this is a better option than silently walking away from each other in two opposite directions.