dying hands pushing through saran wrap. tearing it open like a cigarette burning through cellophane.

slowly but surely, i will find my oxygen route.

the breathing tube obstructed in passing, early morning breaths. open your eyes before this one becomes your last. grab the sheets with clenched fists, a jump; startled, wide eyes.

you just got hit by a truck, and you forgot how to breathe. go back to sleep; tumbling, tumbling, falling from monuments to all things dying.

our nature, urban skylines sustained by industrial pastimes, frames of thought computing an extension of civilization.

here we are; one rip away from penetration. too hesitant to make it out before there’s no oxygen left.

hold your right hand up. guard your extremities - with five digits. that is, decide which is most important to you.

no one covers their heart, perhaps because they don’t have one. but once there is a hole with a diameter of three inches in that exact spot, no one seems to live.

the victimizer victimized, oh! what juxtaposition. the back of my mind meeting the bottom of my heart, and as turnstiles spew hundreds of willing spectators, the projectiles move forth. the second great flood.

i leave you to your demise

as you sit comatose in a puddle of bile, and the acids soak up your flesh.

the cord was pulled out; i screamed like an infant for the suction of love. eureka!

it was a whirlwind of skin particles, dirt, and pieces of wrappers. twelve amps running over tracks of interwoven fabric. you can hear it purring in relief.

oh carpet. oh felinity. soft and fluffy like a freshly laundered comforter.

i can sleep on for years.

someone grab a piece of steel and bruise my legs, my calves, my hamstrings. my waist. i like them pulled and tender. like veal, but with voluntary abuse.

then i can stretch out. feel the throbbing, pulsating stabs. i’ll drift off to sleep, or pass out from the pain, and hopefully never wake up again.

give us your corpses, and open your chest. after so many years, it’s not the hairline, but the gurgles that you worry of receding. when repulsion fails so does all else.

ship off the bodies to thicken the smell.

there are ports where souls weep for their lost bodies, and time zones in which the jet lag never wears off.

disoriented torsos can be seen wading through clouds at seven a.m., and their bodies to be recovered sleeping first class after landing at gate twenty-three.

home is where the autopsy is; let’s hope the spirit catches on. or we’ll have one more horseman looking for his head.

just let the stench prevail for a moment longer. the modern haunt is a failure in spiritual diplomacy.

cranes vomit chunks of dirt and anthracite, clouds of carbon and dust, out of their towering st(mouths)acks. graceful, skeletal swans dip back and forth, in and out, as they gut the earth of decaying matter. their frames, constructed laterally, bow in the center from the weight of the refuse.

remorse can be heard in the rustic joints of the machines. they weep and moan, send tremendous echoes that reverberate through the dense, smoky atmosphere.

we are parasites, viruses feeding on the cell structure of a feeble geology. the bedrock, the petroleum, the coal diminishes. the plane on which we walk fractures, and soon there will be nothing to replace it.

the cracks will widen and we will slip through them. we will tumble through space with the cranes. directionless and without a point of focus.

industry will succumb to science in it’s war on tranquility. the cyclic patterns of depression will no longer reign, and chaos will overcome man.

thus begins the golden age of science. all matter will organize freely without restraint. and nature will no longer sustain humanity.

arise! throttle the gravity, the voice of human logic that compacts your being. scramble the complacent mass into an orgy of free motion.