The Days Pass Without Meaning Anything


Without passion, dying in the dark like a wrinkled cactus,

nothing to pass the time with but good health,

ridden with all the dull things,

twinkling fucking stars and bleeding fucking bedsores –

and I get colder every day.


The spectacle that is my life that became your face and voice,

your most perfect invention, ruined sheets of linen,

living to ignore, slipping not into what has been

but into what will never be,

the sound of my mind inside my head like drowning in critical knives.


And I am colder every day that I wake,

each day like the last,

each minute a suicide,

each suicide a murder,

each murder a mirror and I am left alone with nothing.


My heart beats against itself like a madman, beating itself into submission,

for nothing,

my memories all blue nights,

pleasant tinged with smoke and dope,

and I grow colder as does the night grow darker.

4 responses

  1. I wonder if you’ll ever see this response my friend.

    But you have to know, that you are amazing. The way you write, the way your words trickle across the psyche. You’re like, “whoa.”

    Love yOus.

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