Gouge

What a terrible thing it is to know...
That I have your eyes.
I can't look into the mirror anymore...
Not without looking away in fear.
Fuck you.


You ruined everything.

Neurospektica

I am the embalming fluid of your fine machinery.
Oiled up transparency, circulating your circuitry. All geared up with nowhere to go.
Her head spun clockwise, bedpan reveries and intricate placing of folded napkins.
She’s one of kind. The kind that bites then purrs.. the kind that you keep in a box under your bed.
We wiped her parting lips, ghastly words spewed out and laid out, high-strung, and the clapping of heels against sterile linoleum.
She’s a scalpel away from a free trip to the morgue.
Stainless steel bedchamber, engulfed in a classic sanitizer smell.
Lemon fresh, broken English, French dichotomy.
Moon eclipsing, waning as she’s whining.
“Give me morphine, give me pleasure. I am not your Rembrandt historical society tea party.
THIS IS MY DEATH!”
A lifeless, neurological dystrophy symphony.
We except Sabotaged Sympathy Cards, Credit cards, Judgments, Fine Jewelry, Blood Red Precious Cargo, Your First Born, Burnt Cassette Tapes, Hydrogen Bombs, and Polluted Gene Pools as Payment..
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