This passage, is a voice in omen

fortuitous with its boast set bold,

an unhinged sad fragment

of variegated wondering hopes

from the madness I have seen manifest

in the dark magic of nighttime life.


I feel an itch, inward, a burn

deeper than the stygian Dante pit

and it begs for release

this, thing, a part of me, living

organic and alive.

I inhale it steals breath.

I eat myself hungered by its leach.


No company satisfies

though the orgasmic release

is an equation of what will be, when it must,

self-purged by urination and defecation

or an oral released explosion

a self-actuated pyroclastic surge.


If I could sever this timorous gore

from my innards I would.

Release the pressure on my head

my heart, my loins, a deep empty void

preferred to a tentacled fist

whose screams I mimic

by waking life statements typed.


I see fragmented pieces grounded,

rolling as dice, glimpses of words

progressing in the dream soup.

Molecules attaching to engorge,

smashing into plotted characters

traveling through storied lines.


Contraction! Seizure accepted, to birth.

A great adventure is about to begin.


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