Arctic Circle

Arctic Circle

The clog is thick in the ventricle incapable of entering back

Into the heart once my ears encountered the cancerous mass

Of bonds with moving on and other unnamed better offs

Launching on parallel Saturday realities

Damn me and impale me across the hours of what never was

In the arms of other men in these twig cracking branches

Grasping nothing in this deforested arboreal tundra slumber

Daylight and twilight have transposed into an ethereal numb

Gray across summer melting and the routine bears sulk

Sludge heavy to breathe more than a twice an hour in

One phone call a month up here in this Canadian inferno

Next to the Ruskies and the Bolsheviks I think I might get drunk

Drown in the who gives a fuck of this pale ogre beating me senseless

I miss what it felt like to feel alive.  I don’t miss her, missing her would barter an expectation that I was ever missed desired for longer than a passing chant

The depression grips me with frog tongue cat tails whipping at my abdomen

To peel out my entrails with sticky lies I tell to myself and scratching pains that I would rather forget

Break the deed on a barter that I am not a man worthy enough for martyr

I have no cause, no contingent just a solitary abode hunkered down in a malignant

Tumor so pathetic I can not even destroy myself properly, do the world a favor and

Cease the belabor of points that spur trite as if I ever had anything to say in this life

But a broccoli fried batter coated kelp burrito Manchego amuse bouche no one would ever consume, not even gratis and slipped in the throat by the reverse image of my repugnance the world refuses to elope with my presence in the marriage mirage of this union   The cold shoulder is colder and it tastes like vice planned by my own hands to help me sleep at night

Ambien pentameter just speak into the pill, cough up the forty five extra and let Blue Cross suffer with the bill of a stomach never pumped and an esophagus clogged, no more words to speak through just a trench coat mafia of Rorschach faced politico mobs

Analyzing nothing on the assumption of depravity but no one gives a fuck who killed the man whose life was just lived inside the cavity in a molar of a mouth that never ate a God damned thing.  No taste, no fried Church’s chicken thighs spread, just grease and oil and other rivers bled, this head was just stuffed with lettuce forget the green obscene

Lying to myself like a catalytic converter broken down in an engine of routine