It smells like licorice burning on the stove.
Hands held to the burner by another oath.
Eyes propped open to watch the smoke dance.
The cinder form, the blisters rupture.
Mouth bound by the thick stitching of threats irrational and real.
It feels like walking through a waist deep concoction
stinging and chills the bones at the same time.
Worse than any rash, worse than any burn, festering all below the belt,
trudging hopelessly, endlessly, thoughtlessly
through the infinite marsh,
the invincible thick muck.
Leaches, oh yes, there will be parasites,
without the generosity to use neurotoxins to numb their presence
without the forethought to use anything but the most burrowing and scarring burs.
The air here makes me weeze-
like pestilent black soot with microfibers of asbestos,
for added spice,
my coughs come blooded and full of...
substance.
the water here tastes distinclty, only, of ash.
All things pleasant,
all things necessary,
have turned sour, bitter, vividly tormentive.
A forest of crucifixes can't save me from this.
A colleseum of wellwishers and prayer won't reach the scorched heaven of my...
Fearful, powerless, and without an ounce of confusion,
I dwell in these dreams.
I walk in a fugue of their remnant waking terror.
A scream
a wound
somewhere within the ever dark contra
the very essence of...
