Songs of solitary
create a harmony in
suffocation of sense to
distract with or from the physical.

Heart says "Go!" but
head hesitates and a
dirty dance of delusive balance begins.

"This never ends well,"
the body chimes in with
muscle memory of the
meaning of life.

A corpus-chorus-line.
Feeling a bit like a puppet and
never the master,
asphyxiate with strings to
escape the proliferated penitiential practice.

Prolific writer, setting bombs, talks of body, never of arms.