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Bath / Fuel / This Morning
The mud is coming in It’s climbing up the walls The ceiling is too low I have to stay hunched over Dust is falling on me And the mud is coming in Into the cold slit In the rock My face is empty The shadow is on the wall The mud is coming in I’m being buried in the mud The mud is breathing and sighing It’s slopping up my chest I’m being buried in the mud In the cold slit in the rock That’s too small to turn around I’m being buried in the mud The mud is in my teeth I can’t remember my face The mud is telling me you’re empty It’s telling me I’m dead
I would love, one day, to be thrown, quietly, through a plate glass window, and into the trunk of a jet-black car, the lid falling shut with a heavy click, locking me inside, forever. One day, I would love to be in the trunk of the car as it drives off the edge of a cliff, falling towards a basin filled with jagged rocks, where, as the metal crumples from the force of the impact, a ragged hole will get torn in the gas line, and I’ll be engulfed in a blossom of fire that burns forever, all around me, like a bright mirage on the horizon.
I found a corpse dropped at my doorstep, bloated and naked, headless, lying on top of the morning newspaper. “Ew, gross,” I said. “Really gross.” “This is disgusting.”
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