My Dreams, I Think...

I flunked out of the "pretty" competition
a long, long time ago.
I flunked my way out of every skin
I'd occupied or had thought
to-- and my system's
been run
ragged; it's
so, so tired
of regeneration.

I have nothing left in me;
nothing left for you to gawk at,
so I'll run riddles 'round your pretty head
instead; I'll run in circles
'til I trip myself up,
take a blow to my temple (is
that what my body
is?)
break my legs and absorb pavements both
hot, cold:

no
skin, no
lies left to live, no
spirits left to liven
the day or leaven a mood,
brighten the atmosphere of the room
you rejoice in,
which spins and turns
fasterfasterfasterfaster;
bastard, banal
fuck, nothing-person:

you don't even try anymore!
Malignance and apathy! a blight
from every pore, a pestilence with every parting of the lips--

the only sighs left are in
remembrance of half-lives
half-lived-- quartered and drawn/dissected
(maladjusted existence, no
benediction left in your diction-- no
thesaurus full
of fucking fakeflaking
fake fucking plasticwords,
styrene-swords; anticonvulsory carcino-eugenics blister
ev-er-y
punc-tu-al blasssstttt-ted syllable) hearts
lie, lay at the heart of your primary existence in
this

current state:

waiting for nothing, and
nothing
more
will come;

you, World, have gotten it all out of me.
Leave it, Dog.
Leave me be. (These asbestos-stuffed

sinuses

are or once were
my dreams, I think.)