anti-matters of the heart

my brain feels
convulsive in
the fucking
bone prison where
all i have is
the rebounding
apathies bestowed
clanging hollowly
church bells
in a state of
derelict neglect

cut my thumb so
i am leaving little
crimson smears
as i voice my
frustrations on
an unsuspecting moon
every letter sends
a shiver of pain
but the words do not
give a good goddamned
if i am hurting
they demand their
fucking pound of flesh
in half coagulated
tears cutting down
the cracked cheeks
of a fool alone

i fingerpaint
with my blood
hoping to trick someone
into thinking
i have worth
but the secret is
poets are filthy liars
spraypainting flecks
of hope onto the
undercarriage of dream
to try to milk
money from the rubes
a con as old as
time itself
and i am nothing
but a stain on
that hallowed tradition

discontented by
the half measures
i am too tired
to continue this
farcical delusion
fanning the flames
that fate or hope or
whichever god seems fit
is anything more
than graffiti dripping
like blood on a screen
to trace the curve of
this gloryhole
mistaking meaning for
disinterested moaning
as everything slips
farther away

my heart is a
supercharged chaos engine
leaving nothing behind
but ashes and
faint crimson smears
as we speed headlong
into calamity


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