Christopher, lets not think creative anymore. Christ-wants-mas-scarecrow-man I wanna die. I wanna die. I wanna die. You never die. This one, exploded. Its torn and chunked. Its all over my walls. Its carved in. He just rolls around, oblivious, almighty. Of coarse, no eyes. Rolling around, all over my life, making me drown. I wanna die. I wanna die. I wanna die. You never die. The necrotic-black fingers and toes, poking and stepping all over me. Smoldering eye sockets and other face holes. Like a God, looking spiffy and holy, with the green nitrogen. Ill just glue it back together so it can fall apart again. Whats it like to . . . I wanna die. I wanna die. I wanna die. You never die. Cracked teeth, crooked bow, half smile to finish the show. Broken bones stand him up to stand on me and kick me till I believe . . . A mirror is useful to see the ugliness of things, so I looked at him. I wanna die. You never die. To cut the skin like the knife is a zipper. To climb in like the extra fat is a costume. To enjoy it like its supposed to happen. To feel it up like its a sleeping lover. To get away with it like its picking up litter to have it littered in a pile with other litter. To span it out like it asked. To look good in it like it was to impress other non-existent life. I wanna die. I wanna lie. I wanna try. Youll never die.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Mar 2014 01:02:38 +0000
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