Saturday, September 04, 2010






Every night,
The Idol in my head
and I
fight.

9 yellow moons
die
and resurrect themselves
and smile

Bud like Bruises
Open up
shop on my chin.

Blood vessels burst,
paint
a van Gogh
in the canvas
of the whites of my eye.

I crack a rib
I crack two
Alright
I crack quite a few.

It hides
making tents
of my bed clothes.

I wander from
pillow to post
pillar and bed
itching
for the next round of hurt.