The Underside of Rock Bottom
3:17 a.m. Sunday: “Finished”
5:07 p.m. Sunday: Edited to remove the most gibberish gibberish
6:00 p.m. Sunday: Check-in
— — — They always do check-in late on Sunday afternoon
. . .
“It is impossible to lose everything and still be alive.”
~Mokokoma Mokhonoana
. . .
Staring up at the underside of rock bottom
Sullen gurgling beneath my feet
Shadowy demons dance and twirl
Wisps of smoky forms elusive
Reality not just out of reach
Nowhere in this collection
Of blasphemers and sodomites
Demons in my shoes
Eternal pain and despairing shrieks
Wrathful and sullen
Eternity in flaming tombs
Two dozen snapper caps
. . .
Another unbaptized pagan
Lustful desires for flesh-pleasure
When did I become so cold
And abandon all hope?
Quart of tequila, quart of rum
Case of Budweiser, two bags of weed
As the weasels close in
A whole galaxy of pills
They want my name
As if I recall
Shadowy figures again
Dance as they crawl
. . .
Temporary insanity permanent hysteria
Socially distant from sensibility
Decomposing from within
Chewing meat under my bed
I’m the mayor of the City of Woe
A worm-monster
Presiding over a river of boiling blood
And fire
The drugs fear nothing
Not the rats skittering up my leg
Or the pending physical
and mental collapse
. . .
My reflection smiled back
Now my mirror is empty
Never give your real name
To the backside of life
Helpless irresponsibility
Depraved
What used to be a man
In the depths of a binge
It’s what I’ve become
Some doom-struck gimp
Who couldn’t handle the pressure
Of self-imposed exile
. . .
Complete severance of connection
Between the body and the brain
Phenomena existence
Phantasm orgasm
I’ve seen the floor open up
A grotesque mouth
Revealing a plaque-covered
Maniacal green-teeth grin
A vaguely reptilian cast of dogs
Draped in Acapulco shirts
Glazed eyes that drip slobber
Insanely dilated
. . .
Visit with my long-dead Grandmother
Her tiny black, gold-rimmed monocle
Screaming gibberish
Warning of the bats
I had no choice
Cut her memory adrift
Hope she doesn’t remember
What was never real
Turn your back on a person
But never on the stimulants
The desperate assumption
That it all means something
. . .
I’m insane
I can feel it in my bones
If home is where my heart is
Then my heart has lost its soul
—
This post was previously published on ILLUMINATION.
***
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Photo credit: iStock
