Breakfast

17 Feb 2021

Mark T
(i) Fortunately, this is the good neighborhood 
in hell’s netherworld; this shaky simulation
is a patched facsimile of mass memories
downloaded and broadcast organically (i)

*

a million dead on the internet
but the pain in his fingertip
is worse than genocide
for his uneasiness

he feels no nostalgia these days
for the dazed nights of insomnia
waiting for the haze of daylight
and the tight ways of paranoia 
                                               
a red cocking knock on the door -
it’s her from the floor above,
her whore’s minutes offer
more than sucking love

she counts money inside her head
and worries about the swarms
of viruses alive in her eyes,
staining her neon irises

ice-cream man needs food
she thinks, within her aura
of last night’s rubbery pricks
and pheromone tobacco sweat

the elevator cube smells of fire
like black rope across an alley maw, 
the mouth of the machine grins sinew 
as they descend through circles of bone       

words on glass, a clash and clatter
steaming between levitating plates,
the globular walls stream acid yellow
eggs and the sliced legs of bloody pigs

the ice-cream man doesn’t know he’s dead,
and the whore thinks of somehow escaping 
the goat-men, her tortures and the brain wires
but all the edges here are locked until tomorrow.

Generic

Myth, Legend

3

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Mark T

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