Such a psychotic mess.
Such a mood slave.
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whining,
grabbing at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed carvings of dried blood,
only curdled nightmares where I’ve lost my way,
lost the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so comfortingly in
cyborg skin’s mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical phrases effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry dancers consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
My gifts spurned or derided for their
inexcusable tackiness, stinking with mold
and decay, cannot pay any price.
Mock, if you must for warmth.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box bleeding stale air.

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