invasion


in the mirror, a
sub-lyrical junkie
tongue-tied in a visual
miasma
behind which
he suffers coolly
a biting wind kills his high
and his bones
break as they crash against
the lifeless earth
a derelict’s inertia
is all that sustains the world in turn

my veins turn to stone
to narrow the heartache
of an empty bloodpulse
a derelict’s inertia
when not even gravity could seize
my airs and sins

a bulwark of self-restraint
soothes the nerve
from such thundering agonies
the undertaking of indulgence
but in reality
‘tis the pleasure that ails me so

my veins turn to stone
to keep the deluge from
wandering in

her mortal breath pooled in my lungs
the pollution
of a dead world brought to life
by some tragic plasma
somehow i always find the femininity
in my lethal toxin
invading the very core of my
existence

my veins the rigid and unlamentive
as soft as steel with the cool
touch of grey, though

inevitably
she’ll exploit my fragility
the lecherous pangs of wanting
mischief...sacrilege...impurity...and
the almighty heart
that could never pulse for another
for by this fateful psalm may it evermore be known; i love her




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