No Other Ventricle

That thumping beating in my chest,

No more thrill than panic now:

It all seems worthless

In a world that doesn’t want me,

In the dark shadows,

Hemming,

Vomit building up in a

Torrent that fills the orifices,

My throat,

And the vacant space within my heart,

That robbed place burning

With a manic sickness

That throws caution only in depression,

The darkest hole

In which I dive and sink;

Restless,

It is the term I cannot use

When rest is my eternal

Mother of the heathen,

Liars who dance dirty

Around my present state,

And ever-grave,

Yes, they have made me grave,

The fears and not

Knowing every necessity,

In blind innocence,

The insight into guilt,

Alone within the homely shell,

Temper ticking like a dripping source;

Where from,

That effervescing variety

Which calls to souls as they

Lie shedding the dark’s stream?

Never in my life,

And always in the agony beating

Without tears, have I denied it,

The presence of another nestled

In the shores;

No other ventricle

To share my blood, and feel it pour

Beyond me as a roar;

Thickly now it spreads,

To take up position in nothing,

Threading pacing all disquiet,

And then the return of the cry:

From there! Exactly

As the root of poison

Continues filling every sinew,

The dark caresses delicious

When there’s nothing

Greater than nothing,

Nonentity of the missing,

No more thrilling panic

Than to be the figurehead

Of cursing saints

That I have become.

The End

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