Text

sometimes i
have the urge to
take a razor blade
to my tongue
scrape away my
voice
(it will be a spongy
clump in my hand
bloody metaphors
and spit-covered
prose
wasted)
shaking hands

my voice is weak
petulant
it lies and it tastes
of bitter possibilities
better that i
hold my shredded
vocal cords in hand
than start another
clump of prose
as black and deviant as
the marquis himself
or not
perhaps i have
not yet sunk to that
level

how do you eat?
simple question
it plagues me
my food is violence
it soothes the red eyed
devils that gather at
the edges of things
slipping towards the
edge
the razor sharp edge
with it's promise of
fulfillment
perhaps if i combine
the right word structure
and add in the dead
the demon will be satisfied
have jesus himself
fuck his dead mother
in her tomb. but she
was alive, wasn't she?
died as he hung from a cross
by nails
blood sliding down, painting
the ground like raindrops

blasphemy
the word is a sin
what about the real alice?
it was said that he
was driven away by her parents
whispers in text
mushrooms that help
you grow larger and smaller
cut off from her when
she was eleven
perhaps it was the photographs?

i will limit my intake
to food in which
the hero falls in love with the
girl and lives happily
ever after
instead of the perverse
greasy, dirty
word images of
mind fucking

i want to paint
the world in shades
of gray
that melt and
take the blinders off
the world is not pretty
inside it lurks
strange currents
currents that are warm
with blood

i will give up the written word
and lick my fork and knife and
eat sickening syrupy garbage
watch them transform plain
girls to barbie clones with
shining eyes on television
i promise

then i catch a glimpse
of the dark
smell the scent of
bondage
taste the fear on my tongue
watch her bring her
back from the dead
spit in the face of god
make a schoolgirl snivel
smile cruelly
and take out my pen
again

ok, i lied