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!

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