RareForm
Bluelight Crew
my dick
is going to rot off.
and everything inside of me
is going to liquefy
the morning after he drank oblivion
the sadist put his palms to his ears.
he tried to keep his brains
from spilling into the kitchen sink.
he thought about jesus
he thought about sacrifice
and then he cried until he fell asleep
on the dirty linoleum floor.
he awoke in the evening
lying in a pool of warm regret
that dripped like a leaky faucet
from the slant of his brow.
the anatomy between his legs
pulsated,
and he didn't move
until the silohuette of the window pane
had reached the ceiling
he played a hand of poker
at the kitchen table
where he discovered he
had no more thoughts,
that they had been mopped
and tossed out into the hibiscus plants.
he thought about hell
and came to the conclusion
that it only exists in mortality
that when he dies
nothing will remain but the hibiscus plants,
growing in sinful dirt
and smelling of the marvelous wake
of springtime.
and with that
he sets aside of box of matches
for his cremation.
he painted a coffee can with arrows and crows
to put his ashes in
and obeyed his normal bedtime
he dreamt of people pasted to walls
and peeled them off
one at a time
and laid them in the sun to dry.
he fell in love with his secretary
who looked like his mother
but prayed like jesus
and they slept in a bed of thorns,
waking again to linoleum
to that throbbing sensation
invading his every inch of skin.
what a strange dream he thought
to fuck the heavens
to bleed for them
with vague satisfaction
and holy reservation.
he sat up, still in the kitchen
then raised his hands in prayer.
they remained there
in that position
pasted together, truly inseparable
is going to rot off.
and everything inside of me
is going to liquefy
the morning after he drank oblivion
the sadist put his palms to his ears.
he tried to keep his brains
from spilling into the kitchen sink.
he thought about jesus
he thought about sacrifice
and then he cried until he fell asleep
on the dirty linoleum floor.
he awoke in the evening
lying in a pool of warm regret
that dripped like a leaky faucet
from the slant of his brow.
the anatomy between his legs
pulsated,
and he didn't move
until the silohuette of the window pane
had reached the ceiling
he played a hand of poker
at the kitchen table
where he discovered he
had no more thoughts,
that they had been mopped
and tossed out into the hibiscus plants.
he thought about hell
and came to the conclusion
that it only exists in mortality
that when he dies
nothing will remain but the hibiscus plants,
growing in sinful dirt
and smelling of the marvelous wake
of springtime.
and with that
he sets aside of box of matches
for his cremation.
he painted a coffee can with arrows and crows
to put his ashes in
and obeyed his normal bedtime
he dreamt of people pasted to walls
and peeled them off
one at a time
and laid them in the sun to dry.
he fell in love with his secretary
who looked like his mother
but prayed like jesus
and they slept in a bed of thorns,
waking again to linoleum
to that throbbing sensation
invading his every inch of skin.
what a strange dream he thought
to fuck the heavens
to bleed for them
with vague satisfaction
and holy reservation.
he sat up, still in the kitchen
then raised his hands in prayer.
they remained there
in that position
pasted together, truly inseparable
