3 Poems

Bath / Fuel / This Morning

Bath

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

Fuel

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.

This Morning

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.”