A comparison I’ve never made:
Women, like atrophy, and all those shades of grey,
Undone between my mattress and its frame.
For many hours, for many days,
I grow tired of all the sordid things you’ve done on top of me.
I was half-awake; a complete waste of useful breath,
To be trapped here with you—nothing to say,
I just wanted to live a little longer without hurting so much.
I came out of the woodwork a real boy, and
I’m OK with what has brought me here;
A carving, a hollow, a bent-out-of-true hook, used to blunt a bullet.
I provide quite the thoughtful target;
A trepanning of the head with bullets and blades.
Draining my thoughts with sponges and pipes,
Dumped in a bucket and placed out back for the birds to pick for thoughts of worth
And shit out the lesser attempts as whitish-grey smears of hurt.