Fly forth into the next,
hurtle on through as flesh and bone
crumple -- what is this force pulling me
not forwards, but out?
Hands reach forth, pink
hairy sausages, attempting to pry
open the swiftly covering wrap of
darkness not in front but inside.
Voices distant sound - they are
nothing above the roar in
my ears,
the twist motion of bone bags
rattling once, twice,
threetimes over in their
metal box cage.
The vertebra snap,
a lock in motion - O
forsaken stretch of scrub
now home to pushed back earth,
a cross of wood and pain.
What tricks were pulled as
this amusement ride flew along
your open rail? Trip,
tumble, roll, fall, fall
fall, like a demented clown
face ghostly blank,
red and pale and distorted
out of acquaintence.
"The make over," they'll say
"was extensive - voila!" Blood
gash and
crunched tooth and glass
glittered magnificently upon magnificent features.
Snapshot eyes drag old
thoughts to the suffocating surface
beckoning, baiting.
Hurtle out of my mind. Leave
alone what rest beneath
folds of age, woodchips,
dust, welding sparks, denial - I
do not know this scene,
it is only mind mine
and death yours - an end
unerasable with the waking.
