Rewrite

Today,
instead of poems,
I ran and chewed a bite
off a philosopher's carcass.
Moist.

Sixteen Year Old Revenant

Ricket,
living in spite.
So strained are your crosses,
there is a strangely fine line
in you.

Datura

Stretches
uncalled, unloved
by them shiver hedges;
her sadist, sordid flowering
unfazed.

Double Prognosis

The self,
What does it hate - the self.
If within or without
the human machine, none can say.

The ultimate aim is
perception of self - perception
of self comes
in three distinct flavours:
conscience,
consciousness,
the curious sensation akin to bitterness at the corner of a tired, teary eye a few minutes before waking up to an array of industrial sunlight affectionately cursing your sickly forehead.

I heard you were writhing
and thrashing around, like
the decapitated vermin does, in
soaked sheets a few nights
ago – left a fingernail on the
stainless steel rail as the nurse,
circumspect, took hold of
your breast – so, why not
show me the same regard?

We are there for each other.
A new shiny cross on my back,
fresh breeze down your throat.

Cunning Heartshaped Translucent Ivyleaf

Callo(w)us
experiment in
Mass Appeal, writing
with an edge,

moving aside
arms and legs,
still sprawled
a christening Crimsoness(ence).

Referee
of the effort
I put in,
handy for
scraping clean the
bathtub shoulder.

Single Wor(l)d Essay

Jeri(atri)cho walls co(straint)me down,
impe(jo)rative to
comply(cate simple lives).

Tempor(t)al matters
prod(uce) me to
move for(East)ward

Shojo(jo) of a
stran(Al)ge(ri) Japanese
extra(di)ction,
She(ltering) holds
grasp(e)s

As if I(ntention) was
not the(reason to be the)re,
Sur(plus)realism at its b(as)est.