turd

The steel ships of lonely hearts trudge through the dead of the night. Recall quickly a scene from ‘67, as vivid as your mind can place it. Identify yourself out of the clouds of posthumous mongering set to lick the sweet luminosity of yesterday from the bowels of your flesh. Divert your thoughts to drown out the pathetic whimpering of exhausted lovers drenched in the smoke of fornication and self-hate. Drown. Drown. Fuck. Drown. The house thuds and creaks to scare me to sleep, and I am afraid but unmoving. I would love to see the remains of my life combust before me. The stench of which, I foresee to be unbearable. Weep long. Close your blinds. Even in dreams the certainty of dark things lay down their weight upon me. No mercy. Such deceit. No traces of regard. The night knows where I am. Deliver me from all feeling.