I’m bleeding on the inside.
My brain sweating like a whore in church,
Breathing like a 75 year old man with terminal lung cancer who was just hit in the throat with a ball peen hammer
In trepidation of crossing the Rubicon from the other side.
Every man has a gypsy in his heart.
Every gypsy believes in a place called home.
And so it goes,
An old man’s stories of sea serpents and wolf men,
Ghosts in the attic and monsters in the woods.
Folklore, some might say,
Apocryphal anecdotes knitted into the fabric.
The inseam of society
Gorged fatty with greed and greasy denial,
In need of an elastic waistband.
The fabric of society is spandex. Classy.
Every town has a girl who masturbated with a frozen hot dog.
Every shopping mall has a stranger lurking underneath cars
Waiting to slice Achilles tendons.
Did you ever wake up in a bathtub full of ice and realize that your heart had been surgically removed?
I don’t want to be the axe murderer hiding in your backseat.
I want to ride shotgun.
I want to wake up with your hair in my mouth.
I want to make it difficult to get out of bed in the morning.
And not because we hate our jobs.
I want to gift wrap the future and give it to you as the present.
I want to make you express feelings for which no combination of sounds or morphemes have been assigned such a meaning.
I want to inspire you to illustrate the migration of newborn cortical neurons through interpretive dance.
I want to scalp every man who has sold your heart on the black market
And pour road salt on their brains.
I want to wake up with your hair in my soul.