He Who Fauceted Down From Recontemplating Happiness

He drips down
my ceiling; his
oozing bones,
eyes, limbs and
matted hair,
heaping on
my floor,
anatomy
thawed into
seconds, fusing
into the chaos
of an expectant
universe.

Outside my
door, wishes glued
to butterflies
die. Dew
travelling on
sun baked
lines knock
themselves dry.
Silence walks
through the
open door, looks
at him heaped
into eternity;
and stitches
himself in the
fabric of who
we had failed
to become.

Photo-depressive automaton

(music in a crescendo splashing
obdurately on numbed,
defeated obelisks)

The business of living came
in intermittent torrents; hid
in the dark closed off corners,
privations of living without the
will to live. Barb wired boundaries
bloodied with the monotony,
that stains late night lies, smuggled
behind eyes refusing to
acknowledge nothing and
relinquish bitter-delusioned pictures.