my march poem

fuck, i’ve been awake this long

the length of a prison cell and

208 rotted seasons, my past

skeletons-there, lying like

unfound white ingots, no one

searches these precise ghosts

and morning moans thru’ into

morose evening into yet another

dull circulation seeking an aneurysm

to escape from, that annulus holds

hollows of much falling and

despair as a currency of breathing

explain this formidable living?

discuss why i am here in the

neutrality of bland, i’m pale

against innumerable pages

becoming inert as an

ashtray’s smouldered entrails

a snowflake upon cocaine

individual as a crowd these

devouring days, trying to reset

the tide from fearful to something

known, return fierce into lover’s soften,

why do i persist with holes and those

smudged gargoyles that surround

them? i am quite directionless on

well pointing roads with a wrongness

i was sewn with, 2018 and the world

is more ripped than ever, peopled

by psychopaths and fucked religion

warm priests assume the sky is

bent with god, “it’s only atoms” the

mountains laugh, warheads tease

threaten obliteration, go about

lives with gnawed upon shoulders,

will i succeed in gestating older?

succinct as murder time ploughs

on, cutting at, splitting, undermining

thorough footsteps, deceasing such

strides into one hell of a disciplined

blackness, why was i even stood at

all whilst burden bludgeons thru’ the soul

commit to this minute, where blisses

ripen circles, endure the womb’s

damp ink, daylight is so unsure,

yesterday is full of maggot clean bites,

carcasses arranged in malleable

lettuces, death circumferences here

there’s pity seeping from the outside

knowing they themselves will be

composted soon, clocks vampire

steerable lifetimes, reducing,

limiting, ticking out our blood’s song

until the lid of nowhere goes on

where silence is oil black and

continues it’s cancer waltz, tears

have been dug into, tiny shiny

daggers of cried salt, their

sorrows don’t quite have the

rivers to reach, and there i lie

in that terrible sleep, blunt linens

in tropical rinses, i could never be

those colours, i’m drab as a butterfly’s

undercarriage, or a hearse with the

gleams sucked right out, and the

shore’s gin wears off and the

wreckages from a hundred glasses,

there’s that sober point of light a

infuriating beam not quite dark enough

for my liking, i’m no longer monday’s

methodical thirst but an entire autumn in

quiet making, those worsening worms

of fear don’t bother me or lengthen

their belly spilt shadows, possessed

queues do as they are told to do, shuffle

don’t stumble until that terminal ravine

has hold of you, down they go where

the blows don’t finish

so here into my 53rd, and the shoreline

of drink isn’t easy, more bottles are

needed for me to wade thru’ the sea’s

starved arms and to that poisoned

horizon, where the moon drops into

then blackens

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