from my vantage point behind the desk
i can see rib fragments and detached limbs
and brain matter and dark bloody muscle
stretched out mosaic on the concrete
the stomach twists and writhes
the heart hovers, moaning hummingbird
i want to mash all the pieces together
form them into something that’ll live
but seeing how the bones scrape slow
freezes my soul motionless
you phased through the flesh
fist grips trachea
your timepiece is broken
and i’m begging you
to lay off the penetrating conversation
can’t we just laugh like we used to
can’t we just
ain’t we just the most grotesque
when we’re trying
i’m gonna buy you a calendar
i’m gonna buy you a drink
i’m gonna buy you a new set of internal organs
i’m gonna buy you
as far as the black market goes
i predict an uptick in the supply
of anxiety poems
with body horror imagery
my google search:
“poets who died of spanish flu”
returned nobody of note
guess that’s the way it always is
historically we drink
enough that it always comes back
to the liver
and i’m particularly good
at living
i am so unfamiliar with this
pile of shredded meat at my feet
i can’t really tell how much
the ethanol affected the yes/no
dichotomy
it’s a whole weird thing i say
and i can’t locate the liver
the liver, the liver where’s the liver
where’s the part that’s still alive
why did i let you push
that knife into me
so many times
mattress dungeon 