This is Where I Belong


strong and endearing. hear the words form on the tips of their tongues, the rat lips take in the tips and ingest.  creating stretch marks on my breast, scratching little lines here...there...
whip the digesting tail around and mark your territory, here.  talk about telephones and brushing the mood out of the talk show.  what is this mean?  not to withforsold, unfortunately the socket in the drawer ran out much too soon.  but where are you going?  where did you ever go that you might come back with a stuffed toy from the machine with a claw? those never produce results anyway.  the lack of my mind to properly function is making this life hell in the first place.  what does it want?  what did he want?  nibbling at my skin, the affectionate little bastard knows how to get to me, and still I do not want any.  lay my head down, sell my ears, prize my eyes.  it is something different now.  something rash and vain.  it is something exhausting and loathsome and all  too much pressure to handle.  
he sleeps.  finally he is still.  he lays still.  i yearn for cinnamon and still he remains still.  frozen on my lap.  dizzying world turns back to the days I sat in the countertopped room, watching people go by, and then I vomit.  did I throw that all away for nothing?  what and where is this now?  a rash, vile, exploding lollipop all on the verge of collapse, did I mark my territory on his?  is that why he wants me so?  
little splotches of red and orange mark the blue-stained russian sky.  travinsky marches on to the beat of his own ukulele.  and we begin.


Soaking in the bloody remnants of all that was left.  No more was there shattered in the distance, no more drained, eye-splitting salvage in the courtyard.  The muck was unfathomable.  Sewage in its rawest state of being.  Who there stumbles through the wreckage, sucked down by the gritty water, pulling themselves up again through turmoil and droppings.  Of the numberless beheaded, beseeching to be heard, they drift through the piles of their own entrails, festering in the swamp of mealworms and flies.  Those damn, pestering flies.  Pitter patter out in the distance, the rain has come to claim what is left of them here.  That which is unclear.  And the nearby town cowars in fear at the loathesome sight before it. 
Grey rivers soggy with the guilt of every clown that was washed up there.  Sugar beds wafting scented orchards towards the mine where pebble men never dream of seeing the light of day again.  Is this all too soon, to wander about in the dying sun, to have my precious cow and so drink of her teet?  What was washed away willn't heir return.  Above all the sayings, the ghosts mumble and brey, the jackle's distinct cough and sway.  What did I owe here, to get that which I deserved?

I want to hold a rag up to my open mouth, inhale deeply until there is no more room in my lungs, and block the rest of the world from entering.  With a single rag.  With the tips of my thumbs pressed into my eye sockets so that the pressure overcomes the pressure; the pressure that the pain brings.  I choke, cough, with the rag in my mouth, then I swallow.  The dusty, dry air swoops down into my lungs, depleted of all oxygen.  Depleting me of oxygen.  
One breath, two breaths, three breaths, I feel my head lift slightly from my shoulders.  My eyes won't open again.  Don't make me open them again.  
I throw my body onto the corner of my bed.  Bareback hitting the wall, bruising the protruding spine.  I clench my throat as if I am my own assailant, I want to choke the life out of my own God-given body.  The pressure fills my ears, opens my mouth, closes my eyes.  I want someone to hit me.  Beat me.  
I want so much to throw my body against this wall I am lying against.  I do it.  Head first, face first.  Any way I know how.  Slap me, punish me.