Insecticide #34

You came into this world of mine,
I thought to make the tears to end,
and although they ended for a spell,
recursive symptoms flared,
bodies exchanged heat and light and life.
in this, I would reverse myself; if time permitted.
but only to engage each other’s thoughts.
“asexual intercourse.”
My mind burns with the hot iron
of your brand.
and my heart, as well.
I cannot swallow or spit
and not have your name touch my lips.

Insecticide #33

Slipping into the depths;
where sun has no bite,
and shadows of the world
unite; to overthrow the government.

An echo of you resides in me,
and for this fantasy, replayed;
emotions stir, over which
I’ve no control.

So close (to me),
yet the data structures clearly denote,
‘not betrothed.’

Not in any way connected,
except by past sins and intercourse.

I give birth here,
to anger, spite, lust,
a cinematographer’s
wet dream.

But I am no actor.

Insecticide #31

Physicists say there’s no light coming from
the film roll in my back room;
even on disk,
they refer me to the pilot light for spiritual guidance.

My claim is the escalator motif,
jimmying down the locksmith’s certain death
fragmentary space pod edict anthropomorphic skein.

Shallow breaths,

Egocentric lapdog inspiring
me to cultivate my faith without
her inebriating parapsychology.

Egocentric maniac hospitalization
cornered two-tier wedding cake explosives,
vibrating with the Sound of Music,
so we can all ejaculate in one hypothetical
group orgy as we unravel all the synergies;

Placebo bun retina,

Curtain call,
where are you?
Come out, come out,
wherever you are.

Insecticide #30

Habit forming decrescendo.
Violence between heart and soul
as they dance and play,

The midnight clock sings her name,
but I answer only to the head of Rome.

Star light, star bright;
meltdown of the psyche,
and starvation of the soul.

As Jesse would have it,
do unto others, and her
first class consciousness,
betrays \the life I have contained

Within this neural networked brain.

Insecticide #28

Sulphuric acid, in context,
creates a meme of intelligent art,
and in my wailing and my waning and my waxing heart,
I strip myself bare like Frank.

Only mine is a more corrupted gesture.

what will we do now, with this irreconcilable rift?

It is not in chains,
my heart,
not chained to a lover.

I am free,
but feeding
off her love’s givings.

Now the tree is bare,
like my wound,
sap extracted,
and withered,
and dead.