the sharp, serrated edge of a surgical thought,
slicing neatly... cleanly through each tender,
layered memory which engulfs your lisping heart...
that broken smile peeled back across your face,
a festered smile that grunts with pearly white
perfection, the open fleshy arch which
draws the unsuspecting in... deep within...
only to be spat out, cast out upon the salted floor.
It is the edge...
the dull throb of church bells grinding
grey matters to a fine baby puke substance...
one toll, one BONG! at a time... time...
time slithers down the swollen throat
of reason, invisible fingers strangle
existence toward... before... a nothing...
nothing at all... but a black persistence
scratching beneath the forbidden appetite
of my skull shaped drool.
It is the edge...
between a lullaby whispered on wings,
on moth like wings... flutter they do.
A needle piercing scream across
a blinded universe... and... and...
that flaming heel of molten metals
burrowing through each vein,
each bloodless vein, rushing to
an ever present tearing at the skin...
It is the edge...
someone must pay... dearly...
softy, in little clouds of tortured death
which squeak impatiently for
hell to cease its incessant bickering
with the soiled barmaid
who asks quite pleasantly,
"Do you want another drink?"
I'm at the edge...
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