• haunted, a false idol twisted up in my womb
    these idle eyes infectious and the sick inside my throat
    i crave cinders and smoke and foreign fluids
    and bodies and flesh and bone and teeth, hair, noise
    it's all noise until i manifest it into pictures or names
    there's no movement here anymore
    there's no love lost if the syntax stops
    no more sound no more hands no more strings, chords
    there's a black wound inside, outside and no ache
    i murdered my muse, drank the blood, nothing left
    insidious and predatory and i am licking these wounds
    dispassionate expatriate and still nothing moves
    i cut out my tongue for lucidity and complacency,
    lost my hands to frivolity and languor,
    lost my sight but here remains my fervor.