Hypodermia, Parody of Sickness

***Doctors can't diagnose poetry.***

Sitting alone, with needles in the skin,
paranoia slips into distraction;
childish ghost on the crevaces of inherent mouthfuls.
Mother disrupts your medication
the process of ignoring voices, distorted,
in love with the feeling of frost masking
the faces plastered and engraved on the back of your head;
kiss them,
she's got a PAIR of lips.

In the mirror, and out of the glass,
sipping from the lonely girl in the back of the class,
her tears, gloaming,
contemplating quietus, as it melts away
and it's three days later;
euphemisms for personal casualty.

Scraping the remains off your unwelcome saviour,
no solace beneath the dirt,
tasting (yourself) pills perscribed less for the dead
and more for those fu**ed in the head.
The telephone rings and everyone sounds the same,
answering machine turns to vocal memories lost in the fog,
and ears will rust once you stop listening.

Here I come, and there I go,
miserable cloud in the brightest of days,
rain on yourself and rain on the highways.
City streets fall away, pitch black, with a hint of white,
just to leave you in spite (of it all).
The lights flicker, with each of your steps,
echo on the fireflies that don't know they're killing themselves;
on your hands and knees,
licking the remains of false assumptions off the concrete.

My whispers connect with yours,
and bang ...
there goes the bullet into bone.
Blood goes away, steaming but cold,
as it embraces last night's left-overs,
of the man you used to be.