A day.

Morning.

The cold chills
that wash down
your rosary pebbled backbone.
You lean forward taking the gasp of morning air.
It comes
delayed and cursed
as your pentagram gut sloshes forth
releasing the blood of our savior all over
the cigarette burned carpet.

I am alive...

-------------

Day.
 
The heat radiates
exploiting my disability
of muscle powered teleportation.
An illness of sitting still too long
thinking.
what if...?
You caught me doing it again.
 I am a ashamed of being so distant
but i am a candidate for the first cosmonaut
to set foot on the sun contest.


-------------
Night.

You feel my blood
slither in reverse
returning like snakes
from the third eye
in my wizard palm.

spinning coins
games of chance
will i make it
head is high
 tails your life is shit.
how many mulligans is regulation
are in my daily prayers
To the man upstairs.
Wishing i could pick the lock
of st peters gate.
just to hear ghost stories
by Alfred Hitchcock
put me to sleep
like it was ninteen eightynine..
before the magic sunglasses
stopped working.

I still stay up late.