song of the flies

rot like garbage
rot like the sweet sewers of Paris
my hands reach across the emptiness of
myself
and all falls
in

my veins open up to ketchup
blood

the darkest shit of time
is being alone
forever

the skies open like the cunts of
hounds

my pillow has one head:
mine,
and the coming and going of the sun
and the coming and going   of cities
and people and
everything is
nothing, everything is
nothing, just the way it
started, I kiss statues
and the flies circle
singing
rot, rot, rot.