By My Shaking Hand

By My Shaking Hand

Begin: 3:04

my anemia hurts others
it conspires
it holds back and
bides until it breaks
free.
tantrums are near
law. when the tears
start the guns are drawn...
emotional,
psychological guns that pull at kin and
break the bonds.
i feel sad at the decimation but i can not
help them so i ignore it and work frantically
toward my ends.
my hand stings from self induced
repugnance and asinine follies. my face
is gritty with hairs that ask to leave.
my heart bends when it thinks of
tomorrow... or perhaps today.
shelled pizza
rhythm & bluesteak omelets
mold tobacco, brass sifting in
tortillas. gangrene on waffles yummy in
the tummy.
response to everything in
a cordial manner that is striking
and depressing.
a will that mandates and a man dates.
sorry for everything that i cannot make
better; sorry for not being there when
i could have helped with all my heart and
all my embrace.
7 is the perfect number for the earth
and all of its creatures.
i am a social experiment with
real hands and feet but a synthetic
heart. too sensitive for one, too dramatic
and inclined toward unhealthy things.
a match burns in a futile way - a last
stand before certain death unless the
striking hand gives it a new home in
the dry grass.
there is a certain amount of mobility and
cantankerous-ness in the vile air.
a resplendence that wipes even the most
beautiful frown from her face.
too many are the drifting eyes.
too few are the dedicated hearts.
too weak are the emaciated minds.
too drunk are the people of today
to see what will come tomorrow with
a sun that does not actually rise, but
is brought upon by the rotation of our
rock.
there are people going through terrible
things and i'm afraid to sit close and
snuggle - too involved.
gross over achievement is under achieved
by youth.
back breaking pain has yet to be felt,
but the anticipation hurts worse.
a cadaver once turned her head and
with dead lips told me to stay inside,
out of the cold. my bare feet sunk
deeply into the snow and i regretted
not heeding her words as i cut into her
breast to examine her heart. it was
stained with pain - broken from an unknown
altercation with sympathy for those who
had been treated the same.
the cadaver was hairless which told
me a story. a story i already knew, but
the retelling opened up old memories and
my eyes watered. i felt pathetic and
wanted nothing but a pair of arms around
me.
i was gutted and they told me there
was a problem with my cry-box; something
most men don't even possess. i was
frightened but they reassured me that
i would be fine. i would just be a
big cry baby when i saw others i cared
for in deep pain. i resolved to not let
this cry-box affect me in any negative
ways.
deep in the jungled somewhere south
of the martian equator dwelt a young man
named dan. dan ate and drank
human astronauts and puked up their
skeletal framwork like some fucked up
owl pellet.
diary-uhh...
please don't fall.
don't leap and don't go away.
don't turn and say "quiet - that's all I want."
don't unbuckled your soul. If you crash
it might fly out through your shocked
expression.
six minutes.
brand flakes -
a bran of flakes!
merciless tersity ... arrows of grasp? >>>
distilled humanity
in a doric jar - a simple
dog.
a heathen chamber of love.
a sordid peace capsule.
a memnonic delivery device.
pallid protozoa
a frab bucket. (frab... barf)
simple things such as a 12.5 cent piece to
make half a quarter of a whole.
3 minutes.
and michael angelo most likely had
a low self esteem for his works
are certainly grander than his looks.
it's a brazen reminder of how
fast our fickle existence can be
keifed and drown in our own
fluids.
i am distraught but i ought not be.
i am tired and ruthless and
i am going to sleep.

End: 3:34