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.

Advertisement