Blue Mirror Night

Fall 2013

Hypobeastial, inferno.

Scriptual therapy. That's all this is.

Dead in a world of verse and grace and hymn.

Balancing the chemicals, an eroding lobotomy

Art is dead.

The world is grey tones and hyper sharp

The brain killed it.

The brain is mush, mush. Whipped sweet potato.

My fingers feel like psychos.

The joints twist and grind aching acid erosion

Every wooden creak.

Every crack, footstep,

sends my chest pounding,

The walls creak...

Ice slides down my bloated stomach.

My shoulders arch on the bed

neck protrudes backwards faux orgasm.

I cringe.

Time passes.

No ones at the door.

My head itches again, my fingers.

Glass cut screens slime marks buffed skid wax and grey tones

shining fractals in multiple densities skewing lasers curving chemicals

eating away the marrow picking at the tissue

deadpan and grey tones

the ego is infinite and introspection the velveteen mirror reflecting the ego

importance and earnest absorption, the critical mind assuming piety

assuming and searching for affirmation that others are wrong

chemical burning the itching scalp assuming piety

controlling sleep and routine and grey tones

dissolving devolving resulting in the highs and lows

chemical highs and drugging dredging lows; the dregs drug equalized by steady grinding and acid burns

vapid and dead the world is word wood rotten to wrought into rotten too-ripe fallen fruit

slamming doors 

View thinkofitasthrift's Full Portfolio