It keeps me writing
my desk lamp diagonal
deep in a heart of the night.
I can pull myself apart from the ribcage.
stuck on a window, breathing glass.
Octopus burned in salt, inking onto bleached paper.
Pulling lemon lungs with guitar strings,
smiling out my eyes anyway
ripples in the ocean fishing with a puffy sponge.
I can gummy laugh to the ceiling as the plaster drips away and my clothes peel away and I'm in my boxers skinny
blood filled with soap eyes
dry with water
licking the inside of my mouth
feeling my teeth.
I rub my legs till the sun comes out, fat clouds in the sky
in burnt frying pans
stomach up floods to meet men with old sausages
who laugh at the wrong jokes.
there was no movement in the corner no shadows on the cardboard creations against the wall.
Mask tongue wagging green felt tipped pen says
There's no hope left, today while eating with a friend I heard nobody A say to nobody B that we're all really just piles of blood. He thought he was being so existential and precious, but he didn't know that I thought of it first.
all the old pumping coal crayon machines leaving ridged greasy smears on pieces of bleached paper washed up with laundry detergent and rubber...