crumbs

[heywood floyd]

swept from the hole of your face,
through the little red lines where the end cut your lip,
and the trails of the blood beads
drool into the hundredth scratch
cracked across your shady floors.

receive the wash of echoes
when your fogged up, flame-browned hands
procure the tiny tied up sac
from the semi-spill of diced foam,
locked in the slice of your mattress.

through tubes of spark-chipped glass,
reverse to piss continents stained on your death bed,
and in slow motion drop to your dumb, edgeless ghosts
who sometimes hear you screaming
as you fall bit by bit to their mouths.

[rambleON]

this poem has taken off in several directions.

the first stanza is looking one way. such that i envision fine detail. microscopic detail of skin cells. then put back to perspective with a descriptive counter weight; the shady floors.

the second stanza does a ritual 180, that only can be connected with the first stanza, if actively looking to do so. i want you to guide me naturally.

in the third you got me thinking what can possibly be a spark-chipped glass.

but in the end, i recognize that you are committing suicide. i also understand that you are in the process of this act. not in the past or future but in the now.

well done.