the uninflatable lung


self-enslaved,
domesticated scribe
of a trivial tongue
i melt these
wax fingers
that hold a candle
to my stone-cold
interpretation
of hell,
the flimsy, mechanical, chalk-flavored orphan
asleep on
my master’s pillows
while i dedicate my life to the
art of being a liar,
insistent on finding
the dreary truth behind
every shining fairytale
i scrawled in a heartless ink, the words
emptied from a broken vein
after the razorblade
of love told me that
no one was worth living for;
just like
in the back bedrooms
of a downtown whore-infested
motel i am teeming
with rats and cockroaches,
spitting out broken teeth
and flattered
by your spare change,
a monger who bows to the king of ants
drug-pissing,
sex-fucking, gun-toting
extortionist
eyeing you up for the easy kill;
there is not a damn thing
i won’t say
to flaunt my snakecharmer snuff
“you were my first love
and you will
be my last”
swollen no less than
a beesting on a hot afternoon,
equally as sweltering
“if i were to dab my fingers
on your heart
and lick the blood,
i would not be your vampire but you
would be my lover”
a hard-headed, cauterized flesh-wound
breastfeeding
the baby that claws at its mother’s stomach,
“have i ever told you
how ashamed i am for not
being humble in your presence?”
a war within a war
the lowest form of earthling
imaginable,
i drip from the heavens
a broken-winged fetus
of sin
into the sewers of your soul
to cave in the walls
and bleed beneath the wreckage
your architect of sorrow
your sepulcher of faith
your serpent lover
on my knees because
it is my place
to serve
it is my price
to kill
and i
pray for
death to strike me down,
but nothing
ever will.




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