the edge of slumber

interlaced cobwebs of sticky precision engineering

it decorates my sarcophygous bedroom corner posts
two spiders and a scorpion dance in an out of the fire

induced by electralysous



a coffin or three lay outside my door


each one containing a little part of me





dead





obviously








lead butterflies and silk screen rose petals fly drunkenly through the air
i swat at them to pass the time



and all this while my pen bleeds a little more





the wall is up again
a mile high
an inch thick



more than enough





but have you been seeing things lately?

the Newgate has been opened i fear

and not entirely an accident







my thoughts depreciate by the minute



my hand grows tighter around this pen as it bleeds to show those who see it's fragile scratches that the glass is thicker than it looks
and holds less in me than i know



she held my hand





i love her




"it differs slightly i think"



and in the great mess

i still know where everything is


where it lies



and why





it doesn't help me at all



bathing in the light for a while till it burns itself out leaving me washed in glorious darkness




well that did nothing for me



staring at my belt buckle, waiting for the bone worked metal hands to move




and choke the dream out of me






"surreality feels more real than the waking world"




and when i sleep, i find that i do not want to wake up






indeffinately