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Cerce
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Untitled 2
listen...do you hear that? there's something
coming. sounds just like a storm. no...wait.
that's not right. too clean. too sterile.
too much like instruments unwrapped
for amputation. this here, this is more like
rust scraping off iron spike. more like
steam pipe. boiler room. furnace. more like
'tear the fucking sky in half, pull god to earth by the throat.'
more like inferno. blast radius. engine grinding hard against
stuck gear and the diesel is dripping near open flame.
every drop of blood in your veins is screaming to be spilled.
it's three a.m. and everything is closed except the parking lots.
everything is washed in flame. or is it fog? every light in
the sky is a town crier's torch.
three a.m. and all is not well!
I have been spitting out all of my teeth one by one,
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spitting to make mud, and Jesus Christ is
screaming at me in my sleep, so
I don't sleep much anymore.
the voice on the radio speaks to me through crackle,
he tells me about the black helicopters.
clandestine operations, the secret drug trials
experimenation under cover of night.
coffee helps to keep me awake in the darkest moments
but as of late its been swishing around my mouth
like tin. like something warm and rotten. spit it
back into my wallet where blood should be.
give me new skin to crawl back to where it's dry...
listen. do you hear that? something's coming.
sounds juts like a storm.
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