“Carnevol”

My morals are all now marked with

“X marks the spot”.

The spot where I relapsed and confirmed

The empty death wish

Scrolled out here on my…

Lips flowered with scabs,

Scabs layered like paper-mache,

Ether and chloroform and icing

Drip down over the bad blood.

What’s not pristine is bled.

Constellations rise near the blackout sun

And extend to my throat,

Gurgling over with forbidden words.

Almost as dull as shaping those caskets

In the bleak, fictitious guise of light.

Just settle down and evaporate

Into sink holed skin.