we stitched night together again from hope,
like the shroud of reason with rotting gobbets
of memory sloughing away from it, the skin
of a history or an injurious ideology
that crawled away to die like a pessimist snake,
yet still wakeful, still noticing there was nothing there
and that we were totally empty, that luscious nonentity
that fills itself with lies and noise, and whores its mourning
around this necropolis like empathy existed. we stitched
it up like industrious vampires - people are all fucking ghouls
but most of these undead bitches are titless anorexics,
though we are gluttons for suffering, and i
am frankly greedy, with so many walking corpses
stinking of oblivion like rotting toothless cunts around me
i need to be – i like the dying and their suffering
meat feeds me. my interest in pain is culinary
