Yeah, I’m still working on the Caitiff’s final chapter; my original ending felt too easy, lazy, perhaps, so I’m trying a few alternates out. Tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll be able to start unveiling what little of that ‘Christian’ thing I’ve been working on for some of today and some of yesterday. In the mean time, here’s some more baaaaad poetry.
Cigarette smoke spirals,
around the sluttish language,
chained to the page like hieroglyphics,
are chained to a pyramid’s wall.
My muscles are an exhaustive denial,
eager to walk until they too sleep,
like the organ encased in my skull,
dreams of dreams of you.
My throat is bile,
as my blood has turned acidic,
and my eyesight flickers
from shadows to darkness.
Oh, what conversation vile,
assaults my ears with insensitivity;
let me sleep, blood of my blood,
let me slumber while the night is a child.
Gone, cigarette smoke spirals,
and the language is a whore,
I’ve used her up again,
and neither of us can take anymore.
A disease most puerile,
is poetry on those ill-prepared,
for such a whim to strike at their bodies,
until they waste themselves in its pursuit,
and join me in obscurity,
deserving it all the while.