Splatter Control.

A chest cavity like an attic with fingers creeping through the eaves:  surgeons prying.  The tips are bats and the ribs are slats, you open the cellar door, the surprise is blinding as one flies through.  In the ceiling there is a creaking, each tone groaning and done with the inside even before reaching the outside.  Down below the family debates the spin of the earth, throwing out the steamy trash.  The rest is all lost.  The rest was ill deserved.  Your rest is ruined.  Sleep up there real nice, keep the smoke roiling out the chimney all wrong.  String up words upon the mantle; they sway upon the inanity like paper lanterns.  They're put up to sympathize with the left and the right that hates.  Your hands interlace to replace the ribs.  No more protection, no more hiding:  the darkness shrouds the writhing heart, staining the slats with ignorance and cheat:  It keeps the beat.  An orchestra appears, curbside melodramatic, releasing violin sobs as the structure tears itself down.  This probably shouldn't have been built up so passionately.  The funding should have dried up long before the first flood blooms erupted in the plaster.  Do not tear it down because it is wrong.  Do it because it will make you weep sweat.

Apocalypse.

In the room where one must wait for a face transplant.  Just right now the one I've got is all bunched and tied.  We draw at the same time and its all screwed up, shooting our mouths off.  The surgeon looks in horror at our mix tape sadness.  Our teeth scattered across graveland tar pools like glow sticks.  The party is over, gone, sought after yet doubted.  The lines in the dark are afterimages.  They'll graft smiles upon our faces with skin taken from unknown sources.

We told ourselves our world would be this thing that sparkled bright in contrast to the loss. And the contract we wrote up was written in motor oil and stupid drip. We said the last twilight will be now as we whispered to each other a requiem for ourselves; the loose leafed promises all flying away with the winters getting mild and the icecaps truly drifting. The mindscape becomes foreboding as the sphere spins on further. The signals are not getting out there. The leap off the cliff proves fatal. The lessor in the papers wanders away without a finite return. Dumping grounds exceed demand. We told ourselves with each proactive measure that the context was the decider: should we get too far the rope around our waists would grow taut. But who has the rope tied these days. Proud and ever present, a personality history draws up the will. Can we be what we want to be? Can this tired marble of rock keep us happy? Can we get the jest long enough to laugh? Will it run after the tune up? And our lines are crooked. Dumbed down to the level where we see a reflection in the madness, our gears slip into a hitch and we grab our sides to keep the ribs aligned. Metal teeth all bright in the darkness. Our bodies like armor, our flesh like chain mail; and we know it doesn't work.

The whole thing is ending some day, and I'm not talking about me or you.  I'm talking about the sun and the moon and the earth.  The very source will expand and burn us all silently to ash and nothing.  It was made finite and I've got a feeling my time is and will be good.  The folds of flesh lay decadent upon my skull like a thirteen layer wedding cake.