Sunday, February 15, 2009
This is where the magic comes to die. Where writing stops at the readers eye.
I have time to divulge the innards of a scared muskrat.
He is tasty and fresh,
A deviant filling death,
In the spaces of the worm eating on the rye bread,
He clicks, set belt. finishes a novel, War and peace.
Heaves over small bread crumbs to the vast ocean,
and the memory it rejects.
Here i maybe the ever undermining juggernaut,
out there I am a beast.
The mind makes the music in my ears ring too loud.
My lips foul the taste of chocolate de la vie,
Stomach furiously churns,
Ass pours out the waste that is still wanting,
Waiting to be re-digested.
Come and burn here,
squeal and procreate.
this is life across the crazed waves by
Hells own gates,
With your tour guide
you'll find this ditch more appealing,
as the dreams
of what you were,
when what was when you wanted it
and who was never part of it.