untitled/ A hate so spherical

extract from my poem kyphotic sorrow
you mark this feeling to a place in your trunk.
The drum inside pounds and reverberates each thump.

beating your self up inside with a cardiovascular pump

A lyric poem seems to be a symptom of a personality disorder.
To anyone who asks, this is a eulogy-or perhaps a prayer.

you would pick yourself up
if there wasnt this immense inertia
and secretly-bottled up
there is a sense of vertigo. a hammer
and an anvil to which you press
an ear of iron. hour of lead
the metal meets and shouts the stress
a ring of friction, a gauntlet.

writhen echo.
illegal frequency and velocity
mantric death rattle to end an axiomatic lie
a black and white cry.
and an implicit kyphotic sorrow


Untitled
staring down and everything feels like its circulating,
staring.
down- you get this feeling alot, but the ball of hate has never been so spherical.
you begin to think how much like black everyone's voice is
and how much you hate her.
how much you envy her.
and how much the rest mean to you.
but in a good way.

wait.

in the moments of darkness desire is soo much exciting.
you want to be torn apart by polished black claws.
you want to be bitten and stained by black lip marks.
you want to make another bleed and the idea of
a peircing.
a nail,
riping your insides out in the most beautiful way.
its seems raptuous. it seems like purple smoke sure to deliver a head ache... the walls werent always this colour but god you wish they were
and god you wish you werent here
to see it
laugh as everyone else goes crazy.


The loathings in the writings of a future professional- tiredness and bitter angst in intercourse.


butcher- arms around me
hug me to death
put your arms around me
mug my last breath

I am a prosthetic
body parts for sale
I am a prostitute
artificial and plastic

I am so over this
so so so over this
i see an end around the corner
if only i take that turn- happiness-
I see the beautiful filth of Giger
a dead end with a beautiful painting

I just want to go splat

...in beautiful filth...

im standing on the parapet
But im all tied up in materialism
i have no life like a marionette
my eyes are so empty
my hair is so straight
today. Image is so important
for a career- that i dont have.

If I was happy with where I am
why would i be writting this
Perhaps i write this so i can be happy where i am

((going?, going?! gone?)
!!)

instead of turning that corner to go splat.

!?
(are you happy with where your going? do your eyes shrink into your head in an introspective moment of: 'I'VE GOT NO FUTURE!!', even if there is a future of middle class mediocrity.)
!?

If i changed my life to what i want and wish to be
that dirty mess on the wall with the beautful painting
that dead end- will no longer be me.