Buzzards have come again
while I sit in sin
to pick the scraps of hell
from my bones clean-bleached,
wires have been cut
so the signal sent
was wasted
the blade sharpened, now dull,
What's next for slumbers?
the triple six is anxious
an itch you try to scratch
but the small of the back is a terrible place,
Am I lost in conversation?
If I say what I mean
no one will agree
and I'll reserve myself to isolation,
This situation resembles a disease
a contagion on clothes
you try not to breath,
Sterile particles flying back and forth gracefully,
Marble slabs make a great place
to press my face into
and slide it across till it comes off
in an explosion of red genetics,
The buzzards, The wires, The evil grins
I'm lost in it
Ate up by it
and now I've lost the remote.