What Plagues my Cells

I am surrounded by human wreckage
This wasted efficacy haunts the hollow bags under my eyes
I am sick
Of the murmuring delusions of a sweaty madman
His constellations thread themselves through my head
Those machines of night with their glinting tools of stark
Contrast and precision
A delicate resection of fibers and sinew-those interwoven seams
Each a miniature harbor of life
Individuality can be summed up by formulas
Textbooks in med school teach us the meaning of each interconnecting highway of neurons
Cut here, stitch that, mark this
Your body is not your own
Claims are stuck in the hollow sockets of hips those flags so cold
Pierce through bone
Bones made brittle by the creaking wheel of slowly churning time
The butter of your youth melts a little bit more each day
And you find yourself wearing out the last days of your faith
Like an old sweater riddled through with holes, too frail to
Still the quaking of your age-encumbered limbs
All this to expunge the organic contusion like a thickly swollen vine
Wrapped around the membrane of your memories
Choking on the waste of your own cells
Is a pretty shitty way to die, but then
What isn’t? I know,
Not even an empty conclusion at its best
But sue me for pondering the quantum contradiction of our minds
that fight to live and the messy matter of our bodies that let us die
Sue me like your body sues you for every last sacred chapel
The big bad cancertastic corporation buying up the remaining vestiges of your body,
Combing through your veined secrets for gold
Gold and the fountain of youth that keeps your eyes greener than grass in the summer even when the rest of you fades into the vague and shadowy background
I hope you can ride out the rest of this tempest
lying silver-backed on a cloud of interchangeable morphine dreams and drips of lucid consciousness.





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