The Fang of Oblivion

It has become mechanistic at this point.

I placed the blade in your larynx. I have grown tired of your voice.
Your speech isn’t free.

I will ignore it.

 

And permit it to flutter into the purple haze of this night.

It’s a little too late for the recriminations to be undone.

 

I was born on an island and one part of me remains there still.

I have two and a half months to kill.

 

The monotony pulls and drags.

I feel safest when it is quiet and I am next to you.

 

I want something for which to try, but I am lost to the fangs of oblivion.

I know I was never meant to mean anything.

 

Three stars in the sky descended to the ground.

Searching for oxygen. They were disappointed. They were upset.

 

“We spent five years just for this?”

I drew a smile on each of their faces with burgundy lipstick and told them “You look much better now; do not worry.”

 

I had bells on my tongue but I think they understood. My body is on the roof of this structure and the ground beckons for me.

 

But I have come far to far to give in now.

Besides, I’m wearing your favorite shirt and I would hate to ruin it.

 

I scheduled a parade, a festival to disarm this depression of vultures doped up on idiocy and Benadryl.

I will not let the cycle complete itself. Not tonight.

 

I would rather bury it in the backyard beneath the moonlight. It squirms, but I know the worm’s terms.

 

One in front.

Two in back.

 

I am missing my love.

She has tied herself to the bed again.

 

At nine p.m.

I would drink myself to the point where my face meets the asphalt, but I lack the liquor or motivation.

 

It has been nearly three years when you first lit up my hallway and things have been the same since that moment of forgotten time.

Babylon shivered while I took notes.

 

I wasted the drugs on a throat that adorns itself with pills faster than air.

This atmosphere is nothing I have known before.

 

I have shattered memories of the past. I

will let them rest and corral the sleep that evades me.

 

I am a sleepless line.

An innocent vessel veiled by feathers of destructive intent and tentacles.

 

They will not help.

They are here to see the damage get done.

 

The isolation and loneliness is all that I have.

I am a professional dull.