This Isn't Real

TOMENTUM

With every lunar eclipse,
dips ringlets of your angora locks
That wave down the tremens but dock me commonsensical in burnt to a crisp asarum.

Ice-boxed eyes draw blood from my face and hand my heart to me
every time we kiss open-eyed in confessional.

I was forced upon pagan words, I am the wet submission that oozes from the swelling walls and ruby lampshades and all the wraiths seduced and trapped in thirst and lust.

I am enslaved by your mane.
I’m a crowded exit in the nervous frenzy of your perfumed hairline,
A false alarm brought back the plague that bespangled bowlegged ascetics that whispered they were your hair to the universe but never really believed.

I am unable to carve my name into a surface, or leave an object of my person behind,
There will be no witnesses to the abrasion of my being.

There will not be a single atom or indication that I ever was,
this is perhaps how it should be.

The necropsy of what is left in your umber of me will not speak of who or what I was,
it will not recount my life or flash images of my living before reinserted eyes as they glass over.

Bundles are writhing greedily to choke each appendage,
I am not ashamed to admit to myself that this is what I have dreamt, prayed, fantasized, begged, obsessed, stole, deceived, and betrayed for.

My death is peaceful,
and I am correct, there is no trace in the end.

©Justin Parrinello (September 3rd, 2006)




I'm not here, this isn't happening.
I wasn't here, this isn't real.