Experimental piece of modern free verse, dealing with the savage subject at hand.
Losing sleep in the blind particular
Faith of open eyes-
It’s a savage world out there, they say-
Where old choirbelles seek
A resolution amongst new admissions,
Telling of their fame- no fame to stay.
We move entranced by the macabre,
To chance and delay in the violent
Red and yellow of a pill’s
The TV is on downstairs,
And no one will hear the panicking
Of your own head, or the throbbing,
Curling of a vain ring of blood,
A hacked bracelet for both wrists.
It’s super modern, this ring of blood.
Take a virgin piece of lining
To try out the overexaggeration
Of our discoagulation.
A dirty smear along the bending
Edges, they are feeble- one more
Press and you are gone into the deep.
Caress it before you lose touch,
In the mess of broken skeleton keys
That perforate this ball of lies
Morose. The bed is your reflection,
Reflection dark and murky is
The inconsistent consideration
Of silly sentiment versus
The ability to be dormant when
On the cusp of discussion’s lie.
You’d rather take the sweeter lie,
For seventeen marks no reminder;
Could you tell a washbasin from a sink?
A hallucinogenic, no more.
Crux of hand, curl of hair,
All so similar when madness
Doesn’t need such a mention-
No more than it feeds a victim
To deny it; an innocent to retain it.
A recollection or a simple perforation
From this performance,
Through the other of skull of the mind,
A place no angel can ever escape to.