Hollow // Bones

inarticulation in absence of open 

communication: this is my body, this

 is my blood. exertion seems overrated

 when there is only a bed of nails to

 rest hollow bones beneath (above

 the carcass of consciousness, of 

unsolicited  importance). your 

pretention passes through me like 

lazy light bulb luminance.

(Nuclear)

Songs of solitary
confinement
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.