I linger beneath the clock, counting lifetimes in the dark.

And between every second, the entire stretch of human history fills the stillness of sudden presence, fleeting now.

& I watch my own death in a perpetual state of awe.

the never-ending rot of flesh, blood thickening goo.

& a heart of stone, mother nature’s bones, struggling to reconcile the madness of a brain committed to suffocating lungs and guts with murder and lust.

And the hands of God – goddamn rejoice! The warmth of congregation, caressing by the love of, But blurring my vision, God’s hands, how they seize my eyes and sights unseen, but sites so divine I need not mine.

Pray now.

“Gone is the tick, life I give to thine Clit, and if I die before thine tock, thank you lord, my friend, my Cock”

& the joy of blindness, like riding a train backwards on the outside, strapped to a spear awaiting the destination – a brick wall with grout of memories torn apart by the wash of consumption, by the loss touch and love, by the loss of ________.

the liberating tears ahead of closing moments, fractional glimpses at eternity before you’re taken to the next, of faces overlooking ghostly carcass, soldier, arrogant ape, 2 weeks of grief, and replaced by the weak flavors of new bells, boys, and toys, and joys…

No goodbyes, no apologies, only contrived feelings of loss in a time when worthless men walk in cheap shoes across the careless sloth of coerced workers led by cancer filled carrots, hung, by a string of rich men hoping to dance beside Him.

A string a rich men lynched by the pursuit of quick death by quicksand

And to stunt the growth of their children by overfeeding fat backed babies with fat back bacon and ideas of Godliness, though cold, caressed by wealth, not touched, no holds, barred from sill notions of struggling among lesser men.

& teenagers full of foolish misconceptions of invincibility.

Until they rape my daughter. Then I find that motherfucker and murder their brother, sister, mother, and father.


Then I’m in the cage, full of rage, screaming at the moon through walls, trusting it’s contented stare at silly arrogant apes fighting. The moon says we should be happy, knowing the sun’s approaching.

But morning’s only the void, mourning the missed opportunity to celebrate the dead and dead tired, the strong, the weak, the foolish, the weird, the wicked, the queer, in these living hours of ours, under the light of the Sun, in it’s unending pursuit of complete, and utter, annihilation.

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