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,
my memories all blue nights,
pleasant tinged with smoke and dope,
and I grow colder as does the night grow darker.