Scratch Against Existence

This breath of mine is told. I am worthless
gold. I'm tracing paper transparency. There's
a darkness that I see. Dusk indigo. Stars bring
to it its shade. Like an unexploded bomb I
am made. I devastation of a decade. I'm someone
with a knife that played. Sharp finger red tars
sheared on the strings of a guitar. Strumming
like a death beetle drumming itself into a

Still sleep. Like a haunted grey thing creep
shadows that I look after. I'm given a headache
by the second of my laughter. I choke on
happy ever after and I fold like a pastry still
yet to be rolled. Flatten destiny out and shout
a wounded whisper's echo cry dying out like
one shy bat. I'm thinness overshadowed by
lite so fat. I'm sinister like a skulking cat
sulking in the nowhere corners of unknown

Rooms. I'm taking tenancy of all the tombs.
And I'm the monk who parties on the moon.
And I am sunk like a pierced air balloon
over too much ocean. I speak good words
after being delivered of potion. Death will be
my lotion for my deadly wound. My life
cannot be resumed. I'm man embalmed and
perfumed. I'm by my living doomed. The scratch
against existence caused offence. To those not
liking words. To those who live to deliver death.
To those unseen in pretence.