Narcissism
The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
Strolling in the boneyard of my life:
bleached dreams,
mementoed ossuary of my insights.
On flaking fenceposts, impaled the child that I had been.
Peering from desiccated sockets, the Plague that’s me:
dust-irrigated, arid tombstones,
a being eclipsed.
Stage 1, receding, jettisoned, stage 2, exiled velocity, stage 3, stage 3 ...
The armoured carapace.
Atremored.
In glinted envelope, pulsating, rarefied,
A fiery launch that crumbles into
velvet silence.
No comm.
On impact, just a
star rush,
the pullulating milky veins,
expired, crater-ridden scars.
What's in your call sign? Freedom? Friendship? Faith?
None, I think. I am over, out,
an iron shell,
tons in a matchbox,
frenetic revolutions,
ray bursts,
the stellar remnant
of collapse.
Attend my woods,
part shadow, part man that
I am.
The textured leaves.