this side of the mattress is not the sleeping surface

This began as a poem, and I’ve since re-purposed it as song lyrics:

I can’t feel the very bones holding me together,

the wobbling skeletal gel

of congealed soul-juice.

Or

The cantankerous, sickly curvature of a face with

eyes that see too much, like a shibboleth

of the 21st Century dream.

The yellowed white sheets are made up

of burns and wounds, decomposing remains, disregarded

in the rising smoke.

Its plumes of retreat and remand.

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