Ashes Might Go Down Easier

Once in a while -in a moment of immense sulfurous clarity, when every grace I locked in my dilated pupils begins to form lesions, yellow-running tears through the deepest, lusty scarlet – black and white would be a relief. My mind billows like sheets, silken, swathing whore-hues over my perception. I have to turn my head, hold my eyelashes together with two fingers hoping reality is more palatable in the abstract. On the edges of my eyes, where the tawny evil beckons, bending streaks of light, blurred through my subconscious I see myself continue. Unfamiliar limbs flowing over the sidewalk, never missing an ill-fated furrow, the cracks that I know will break me before they seep poison into my mother’s back. I’ll set aflame this fool’s-gold heart in my crimson-stained fingers and hope I don’t burn myself down like the insanity with her claws on my eyes, holding every torch high and shrieking to the heavens for fire, fire, fire; No pretenses, just destruction – hope ashes don’t lodge in my throat like the drunken revelry, the celebration: saliva and child-sobbing unending in the streetlamps gag-reflex mercy from the pitiless that preceded them.