the end of an era

the summer is fucked and gone
the pot of soup is boiling
and i stick my hand in it
to see if i can feel
anything
anymore.

the answer is yes, i can.

but:

everything




is





delayed.


i am filled with sand.
i am a sand bag.
i am a heavy weight.
i am a ropeless anchor tossed to sea.
i am.
i am not.

it is so hard
not to cry
over the onions
when you start crying
before you cut them.

if i had a chance to survive
my own violent
self-examination,
i would want to
cut open
my chest
and remove
the pounding organ
from inside.

then,
i would like
to slice slice slice
and boil
the pretty pieces
until they dissolve
into an ugly brown mess.

then,
i would caress
the ugliness
with my tongue
and lap up
my potent potion.

then,
i would be
full of myself,
literally.

smack smack smack
crack crack crack
black black black
sick sick sick
stick stick stick
kick kick kick
bite bite bite
fight fight fight
light light light
night night night
fuck fuck fuck
duck duck duck
suck suck suck

i want to take it all back
and start over again.