I'm jealous of the bloodstains on the highway
The rotting chunks of meat, bone shards, and
torn tendons
Tufts of matted fur anchored to degloved flesh,
haphazardly ripped into jagged shapes like the
world's most fucked-up jigsaw puzzle
Flayed muscle that masks whatever bodily form
might have once existed, now little more than
an abstract thought
It's the quiet that holds my appeal, not the gore
The stillness empty vessels must feel as life
continues on around them
Getting picked over by the scavengers
Spread thin and mashed into asphalt under the
weight and friction of rubber
Thoughts and sounds don't matter to a corpse or
to its pieces
But I am painfully, hopelessly alive
A collection of faltered attempts to dilute the static
My head is filled with razor blades and fish
hooks, broken light bulbs and shattered mirrors,
rusted nails and Mother's fine China
The fragments clatter about, rattling inside my
empty skull with an unbearable thunder
The metal and glass tears and bites and grates,
shredding the endocranium and splintering
bone
I fear that even in death there will be remnants
of the noise
The quiet only ever makes things louder
(2023)
