bed of blood

a bullet to the wound, and

a bullet to the mind

can rarely be as sublime

as the pangs of a charred heart

a knife to the navel, or

a blow that ruptures out the blood in your guts, and then

your guts all artistically spilled out

are rarely as comprehensive

as the tunes the mind can take

if the moment were to breathe

and if these moments were to grow

i wonder what we could make with

a spastic mind harvesting a dark undercurrent

and deep undergrowth

torrential rain can water much dust

and clean much dirt

but beyond the pain begone

it can only pick up the remains of a mutilated carcass

it can only wash away the morbidity of the infected soul

nothing can revive it

not even the torrential rain

but if society and i had a choice

i'd prefer a clean road

and we do have a choice

the blushes of the trees

and the faces of the plants

only appear as murderers now

the gaze of lights like a flesh-eater on the prowl

every object around me like a fiend

waiting to rape me and crumple me 

as i crack in every bone

i'd invite them all and let them have their way 

but that would be too simple

i deserve much more

the bed i sit on engulfs me

like a coffin would spit out a corpse

the wires around me dangle. as if

waiting to rip me until my skin is red

they are the foot soldiers of beloved enemy

i can either concede or suffer

the choice has always been mine

i can only concede or suffer

and i do have a choice