Haunted time dragged by insects. So tired
you can hear it ringing in your bones.
Floating on the coffin lid of desperation
in a race long and slow as starvation
while your mind is an amphetamine bus
searching for bodies after a cyclone.
Medicine brand names like fantasy gods
that you read aloud in the voice of the lost
stare uselessly from boxes by the bed.
Hung on barbed wire, eyes full of void,
listing all your damaged parts and every dark wish
until even your name breaks down
into meaningless units of sound;
the naked self wrestling with phantoms, trying
to de-programme from the cult of thought
in a generous massacre of failure.
Published on Don’tSubmit!
S.C. Flynn 