Lobotomy

Philosphy
(i hear)
and all the queens of the fucking kindom are stale
(i eat)
with my eyes watering
(i dream)
with them epileptic

The death and surprising pop
of each sound has faded understandably
and all the talk has gone loose
I am so much at loss for words
even
that the damn mouth is a succubus
now
for former truths

Damn this night
and all its perplexed ends,
frayed to dirty blood-dipped bits.
Damn this living world
and it's miscreants.
And tell those bones
what use are they?
When they only like galivanting about town.
Skeletal anarchy hanging from
ivory stains.
Almost uncovering the nude flesh .

I'd want halos
for my jars
and turmeric for my throat,
but then i must question,
without hot-tub-thought-bombs,
what is the future?
Distant?
or bold?

Maybe even
dangling,
like sharp keys,
bunched.
Huddling,
like 7 year old children.
When it rains on a cold day.