Anxiety Abattoir

In the cold light of day
I feel likened to a teaching cadavre
Laid out and dressed
On display in the surgeons operating theatre

On the street
I am the bashed-bloody pressure
Of concussive force in back of nose
Invisible, forceless bridge break
And the smell of all-day copper

In contact, in conversation
Benevolent, indolent livestock
My throat slit
A drop of pressure to the brain
And sensibility is lost
I cannot breathe
I cannot speak
I cannot be
And as I recede
The waking world drops away
Reality ceases to know me

Words become flesh
Bacteria and time infested
Rotting away
Reeking of days-old, in-the-sun, trash bag, meat-beard decay
Autopsied and over-analyzed
Filed away for further punishment and disappointment
Necrophilia Neurotica: the maggots of my memories
They continuously eat me alive
Metamorphose into flies
They fuck and lay their eggs
In the decomposed eyes of my desolate corpse
And I wait in the dark to writhe again
The Reanimator’s pupal-orgy wet dream

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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