All that AND a chicken box?!?

Going through the archives, I found an old poem I'd like to share. In the years since graduating school, my compulsion to write either stems from a confessional place, or one of pure gut/body viscera. This is more the latter.

on the vitriol I have that tastes like blood

I have a vitriol that tastes like blood.

I don’t puke it up on principle.

Instead, I watch it eat at my recollection,

dissolving it into a sadist’s sludge

that I rub on my skin like a salve.

It seeps down to more vital parts,

when I let it,

and the resulting fire kicks me like capsaicin;

full-body, heat sweats, caustic fumes like gasoline,

My putrid chemical spill with nerves

melted out to raw white tendrils twitching

in the naked air.

My body dances and writhes

-syncopated motion-

Like a worm on a hook.

Blessed, consuming, nirvana of pain.

A kiss of uncut deity.

All else reduced

to a minutia, grating obelisk of boredom with

moments -maddening- as minutes pass

like christmas morning.

Haiku of the Day:

The fruit flies gather

where the sweet foods go to rot.

Trap all dem' sucka's

Today's Drawing (inspired by the word "Chicken Box" texted by Ellen Ambrose)

Today's "365" Project (Make something with tea)
"Homage to the Tea-Totaler"