SituationVolatile

Mechanical man, he’s dying without life, living without soul, Dead from the waist up, H      E              L                                 P the mechanical man, with his arms made of burning silver, and his lungs full of ash and- black on the floor surrounding the human toy on the potty-chair, humanoid stranger, void of everything but sodden hopes, Sat in armour made of skin, Thrumming life through wire-veins, Pump                pump                                pump Space-age hero, Silver skin and copper blood, surrounded by things impenetrable, metal rib cage and solid bone surrounds the beating humanoid heart And

solid and hot and heavy beating with the force of a thousand promises broken and ripped from the honest muscle upon every heaving breath babe born under innocent trusting moon to undeserving foolish enigma, of everything that a mother requires, but lacking everything a mother is on this day to this hour seventeen winters ago eyes opened, lungs gasped and fingers grasped, at the breast of the life giver, receiving calculated cold child of rage growing out and up spawn of toxic hatred between two adjoined hearts trying desperately to rip the seams mother by name monster by nature seventeen summers have passed upon this very

Irrational fear of growing older fear of meaning nothing beyond the number of winters which my heart has beaten for, beyond the number of breaths my heavy lungs have heaved, and the number of halfbaked thoughts running through my brain Irrational fear of growing older fear of meaning nothing but the words on the tongue sickly sweet toxic molasses heard by none but oneself whispered in wholest darkness holding secrets untold irrational fear of growing older fear of meaning nothing beyond the withering bones that frame the skin transparent and pallid young and rich and wild everyone else is so blind

Squatting in bodies unknown and unwanted, it breeds oh so S l o w l y Until there is nothing left but a scorched soul, and armor-plated skin. The horizon sings above its head, as it sleeps and eats from within. It sits on the shoulders of the tallest oak, wallowing in consternation as its heart is pierced with words it does not understand. The wind of time blows endlessly through the molten forest, riding the post-atomic trashcart. Radiation wasteland, baron empty and raw, Living in concrete jungles. Carried home, on the back of the beasts who buzz and whir like clockwork mice, It knew a thing called love, where it was left unbothered

I want to make you cry, I want to make you weep with despair, hopelessness, anger, Joy, Sadness, exulted sobs, or tears of immense distress, I want to milk the sorrow from your willing bones, through the carefully places words, on leather-bound pages. I want to make you happy. I want to make you scream and rejoice, whoops of delight saturating page after infected page of something from my cavernous brain. I want to make you happy, with nothing but words on the paperskin canvas. I want to make you seethe. I want you to hate me, I want you to wish me dead for the love you feel for a character so strong, illogical adoration for but a figment

Nine months of the most intimate contact, Nine months of constant touch, Nine months of hearing your voice in the sac in which my body inhabited, Sucking the lifeblood through a meaty chord, human leech by choice and will, you bled for me and for that I am grateful, Agonizing pain for 35 hours, screeching at the whole damn world, ‘get this fucking thing out of me’ and it did, Sliding out in a gush of mucus and the insides that man was not meant to see, it slithered into the world with a blaring cry, And you promised to love it for as long as you both shall live. But it grew, it grew up and out, and stopped being the tiny

Sitting in a sea of green, peppered by tiny imperfect flecks of white, I sit, and I talk to a man, a man of around fifty, and he tells me of his life as a poet. We talk about rhyme, and rhythm and iambic pentameter, We talk of structure, and form, and the manipulation of language, And this is all meaningless. It is meaningless, because I no longer feel it. The desire to write has left me desolate, Pen poised to paper with so many Techniques to use, structures to follow, Words to abuse and manipulate, until they sit on the paper, in organized chaos, the man and I, We sit and we discuss poems, we talk about language, and structure a

Hold  my eyes,                and breathe my life. Teeth so sore they hardly move,                swallow. fool rose from the dust, Sinking teeth into marrow, and spikes into spines,                He is a man. Sleeping in foreign times, in wrong beds, with the beast who bites hot, satisfy him with blood and sacrificial promises, he takes it all and gives none. Irrational affection, he is the bottom-drawer baby, the psudeo-soldier with hate to match, 6 years of faking it empty vowels and trippy lungs passion man, come slow and gentle But he rips the heart from the chest with his gums. tiny toes hitting concrete floor, teach the wor