Herds rise to the heaving horizon of miscellaneous comfort

Comprised mainly of the inland of reason and fleeting commodity

Gathering strength as they take possession of dead roots left by shed skin

They hurry to the heaps of flesh pulsating still from the self's disaffectation

Girdled in anguish and languid disposession

the ornaments and deaths of a previous being

Unable to justify regret or recollection

in their unattached scattering to the alarm of a parted scenery.

And soon they'll start to simply fracture with a murmuring wail of decay

If only I could implement an excuse but all I may do is stare

at the wailing mass of ectoplasms

pained in their insubstantiation.

I stand hypnotized by the spectacle of curled up cries in motion

the tedious paralysis sustained by their frantic dissolution.

For all I see beyond the pathos of swolled tears and senile tropes

is the government that once made me -

abandoned, evicted, dispatched, evacuated,

I can not be sure how they ended up on this precipice but it is evident

they reside in me no more.

Kicked out, maybe, by the tame habit that oversees the main chronology

in the vestibule despatching of the hermeneutical building

The vaincquors of sin, the government within

the dictators of taste and instigators of routine -

these character consulates that regulate the whim

and cartographize the need in order to omit the gratification of want.

Maybe they could persevere no more in their fetal complacency

perhaps the Queen's ample bosom outgrew their capacity with lust

terrible, and the greed of maternal beasts

fiendish authority excommunicating the passive proletariat

of lacerated and lazy vicissitudes.

And before I part and test drive the contours of this new skin

pressing its potency to the limits of my limbs

I must lie down with the old, losing light in its adieu

drying out from all this oxygen we bore to live.

The familiar whimpering - I've enjoyed all your performances, truly

loved each valiant outing of ardor, frantically serving my turpitude

I was vastly fed by my blood in all existential lassitude, really

and together we vomitted the entrails of the womb

onto a progenitor no longer entombed in its symbol.

We puked the evil within

out to observe its symphonious convulsion

until I starved all will to live to a meaningless sculpture of lipsticks roses

and broken glass for leisure.

Le Souffle

Breath, the sigh, the woe, finite

in which the atoms strode like princes gallantly awaiting a lifetime for forgiveness.

So I swim among the dying ones, unfeisted and dedeified accents,

flurrying to their infinetisimal prospects

a self I was once, dearly departed

and perhaps if I I lay here, faulkneresquely dying

the sun'll arrive before they've entirely dissolved

and in my new skin some of them may melt before I resume

my senses to stretching out the newly etched personage.

Epitaph to complete, eulogy to be had.

For in the morning I awoke to the insolence of the sun

attempting to spiral its promise across the dusty blinds of last night's oblivion.

And I would say I felt nothing

but to ascertain this would be to ascertain judgment sufficient

to measure the void.

I recalled no pain nor tangible departure -

them fragments probably cleaned up their remnants

or the new disciples polished the surface

left dire by the newly evicted.

Are these now my own, to be certain,

experts in the experience of my cadaverous days?

Did they merely arrive and take possession

or have they caught up on multitude items of time, the same

that wore through the years of emblazoned you and the limbo of pharmaceutical death?

Is their general affability a means to conduct

my readjusted skin as their progeny, a trick, a trap conducting the ordinary

or can they just be the script

of a new chapter I've impeccable created?