Stale words fall out over dry lips.
Dripping from the horses mouth.
My rigid hands hover over beaten flesh.
Another handful of pills.
An awl fashioned from burnt spoons.
I can no longer think straight.
Extrication not needed.
A strange, collapsing gait.
Do not resuscitate.
On the spectrum of callous personality disorders.
The nervous fluidity of life.
Naturally flexible, covered with bite marks.
In your face I saw, a twinge of disappointment.
Claw marks on the wall.
The cell we are in, infinitely smaller than the last.
Magnificent limbs, driven to lust abandon.
Drowning in a pool at night.
Leave my body in the garden.
Plant poppies at my feet.
They may say, what a crying shame.
Track Name: Harvest
Are your thoughts entirely controlled by this disease?
Are even the most menial, knee-jerk tasks now subject to uncontrollable recollections of trauma.
Are all your memories harsh and painful and ugly?
Let's knock around the rec room for a bit.
We will throw some ideas at the wall and see what sticks.
Empty, bruised hands washing the scrapes beneath your feet.
Do you feel that?
We are standing on a common platform.
Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.
I am he who is one as one.
We can go down to the garden.
We can knock off low hanging fruit.
And pretend they were already on the ground.
Ready for the harvest.