the perfect me

know that
                 there's a mannequin in my chair

those waxy kind of thoughts
those waxy kind of cheeks

involuntarily replacing me

the shrouded cathedral
                                     draped over melting plastic
resembles my rib cage

the cracked marble
the discolored ivory

the pearl pretending eyes
                                         i no longer have to
eat

he's cultivated all the refuse
                                             hidden it away

inside of me
i can be opened by magic

a can opener
is magic

something soft stabbed into my
intestines
                while I watch for vanished lines

without knees I will walk into
forever places
                       hung with hallowed lights

they will preach florescent

the meals will be of sawdust stars
the wall dreary old cement

I will paint them with the graffiti equivalent
to the years of my life
                                    I will be of plastic casings

a body to sell

until we are washed out
until we are formed into shiny islands
in a retching, gelatinous, blue sea

I am left wondering why.

A curved space
between walls,

She has eyes
spiked at the edges
inky black
and running

powdered cheeks
showing no age.

"Step into the rift,"
curling voices,
warped by walls,
say.

She does this.

vanishes.

I am left wondering
why.

Typewriter

I have a typewriter at my feet
Remington 666
no ribbon
red, black, white
8.33 per roll
3 for 25 ain't bad
on websites dealing in antiquity
in something real, in ink
and paper and feeling
still

the wind howls at my window pane
a lost hurt surprisingly sad
gesture,

a careless motion toward the door
to no one
there's nobody here,
I'm waving at my own sunken eyes
I haven't seen

the same eyes I'm trying to forget