Something Unnatural

Time sits in my belly like something unnatural in the waters of a slow sunrise.

Daybreak - it ripples as it's dropped from the sun.
Late morning - it curls up in a ball and sinks.
Early afternoon - it bobs to the surface and smiles.
Evening - it escapes behind the mountains in a flurry of pink.
Fresh legs to take it where it pleases.

At night - I feel it well up inside of me
It's the angry fire of an glowing and eternal drowning.
My lungs fill with a briny nothingness I can't expel nor explain.
And the time in my tummy keeps ticking and counting.
And counting.

It's the feeling of falling with
Nothing but empty air rising up to catch me.
Placing, in my mind, all of the scenarios around me
Hoping even just one of them is enough to ground me this time.
I crave that enlightenment.

The future - it sits in my mouth like a light bulb.
Easy to dream of more than my anatomy will allow.
Pull it out, and risk breaking the jawbone.
Bite down and suffer the consequences of my eagerness.
Bite down anyway.

Forever counting, that ticking time bomb in my tummy.
Crawling up my throat and out from between my teeth
At regular intervals.

That frustratingly honest ticking
Smothered beneath the blanket of vacant distractions
And hilarious distortions of the truth.

Plummeting from the stars
          there's nothing.
Only an absoluteness of decent

Breaking the surface,
           bone and body,
As lifeless as a coin from a child's fat fingers.

All form unravels,
            Earthly feeling
Releases me, and there's a fire inside, but I'm so cold.

Counting.


         Counting.

                     Belly time bomb, counting.

    Reset,             
                      adjust,       
                                      undo,


                                                                              boom.

4:45 A.M., Post 3 Hour Internet Chat

Its is a black ooze.
A shadow on the face
A slimy obscenity
A ripple in the fat flesh,
Jaundiced.

Blood terror, eye-stripping
Venom-winged whorish thighs.
And the vision distorts again
A new face, the old face
Not your face.

Your face. It's a plague. A funk.
You wish you could pick
it from your cheeks.
Believe me,
I wish you could too.

As much as I love that face.
The face I fell in love with
Things change. And stay the same.
You were always the same.
At the cheekbones.

It's late. I should sleep.
It's at times like this the poetry seeps
Creeps across the page
Like black ooze -- wholly unrelated --

Maybe I just need coffee.
Or a hot demon chick.

Ourboros, Domesticated.

Coiled, like a cat in the morning sun

You become the mark on the wooden floor

The circular burn on my skin

Like a bruise from the mouth of the leech.

Why the cat? Why the leech?

The mad bliss of the sun's bleach?

He stalks away for the night

Only to return when the pickings are bright.

Coiled, like a snake in the stalks

You are the guardian of these weeds

And you bite the tail, the tail, the tail,

The mouth. Repeat. 

If death be eternal, so be your stain.

Carved into the earth of my barren plains.

Scourged, scorched, scoured. 

Until the dawn of dusk, to dust, devoured.