You put the bullet in the chamber like coffee in the pot. All those days spreading like cancer around swollen tongues. Shaken baby syndrome and nicotine stained fingers. A tiny violin on cute little wrists. Crimson kings and bandages suffering like a million victims of war. Blood on the dirty asphalt and tyre tracks leading to a burnt out car. These dreams could take me anywhere, yet instead, they take me here. The ghosts of dead memories. Torn off cocks and tinned food destined to remain forever uneaten. Take photographs of rape victims. Remove disfigured limbs making sure not to inhale the sweat of pungent flesh. Hung thoughts at each and every turn. This is not what I had in mind. This existence of precision so suffocating with every forced breath. Coerced into believing something not to my liking, the distant wail of suicide babbles like a beaten child. Mountains at the foot of my bed. Distance so unreal when living between unseen mirrors. Hack off my fingers then heal my wounds with sinners salt. Punish me for daring to stay true to who I am. Put me in a box. Drown me in equations. Bring me the heads of all those not yet ready to succumb to my vision. Let me rid myself of these thoughts that know no end. Beneath the surface, they rage like a sex plague. From Syria to Istanbul, the blood flows like music. From Portland Oregon to the barren lands of Reindeer Lake, there’s no telling what’s heaven or hell. Paint her body. Explore it with itchy fingers. Set fire to the homeless. Drink beer and fall asleep with the TV on. Throw away books that remind you of cheapened acts. Pick away at the holes that let in doubt and melancholy. Puke up blood. Peel back all of your skin. Purgatory not mandatory. Sin not sin just a reason to think. So wretched these afternoons where nothing ever happens.