Thursday, January 09, 2014

Rigor Mortis

They say I am washed out
Inside out without a bout of gout
My eyes are gouged out poked out of their sockets
And plugged inside out
In the inside of my snow-white skull
Rolling about in their sockets in the dark
My nails stab the inside of my sinewy flesh
Like shrapnel or hardened constipation
In my nether place
My boys are trapped in a pelvic prison
Fleshy blood red curtains draped over the walls
Blotting out the sun the breeze the agony
Of looking inside out and not liking what I see
Unaccustomed to the view of my exoskeletal frame
My brain matter sensitive to the breeze
My very essence slipping off
Like a melting mask
Washed away
Stripped from me
They say
Rigor Mortis
I am afraid of the dark



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