Post-Romantic Pose:
The Quest for an Answer of Past Reciprocation or Death

by Shawn Phillips



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Studying the Shadow Ticket of the Inevitable

Four A.M.,
I sit, contemplating the hour,
searching for the meaning behind it.

I have found myself here,
and at that exact same moment,
I am lost.

My throat is corroded, dripping rust.
I force myself into the hours unknown,

I hate this formica that mocks me, knowing the truths
I seek.

In spite,
I want to burn this city down,
raping history of its elegance,

to carve my built-up seething,
branding it into the brick,

Cannibalizing the fruit of alien brethren,
I am marked as the condemned,

I pack my pulverized bones,
zipping up this skin bag.



Hurling myself back into the red star of my soul
looking for a way to contain my self-control
I'm tired of this game, I'm tired of this mess
I want to tie a noose around this thing called stress.

Escervate my lungs, tearing myself open
self loathing stabs my eyesores
I cannot stand the impulses that
pull me asunder, crumbling

rip my veins
gnash my teeth
burn my lungs
evaporate the very place I exist
until I can learn from my own folly.


Sealing the Envelope

I draw myself thin
being swept away
like straw
wasting away
watching ths world
draw my blood
my strength spilling
out onto the floor
pooling around my form
I can see it
out of the corner of my eye
waiting for the finality
to carry me away.
Buckled down on a cart
watching the corridor
around me.
Vivisect me.
Oh, it's too late for that,
I've already done it to myself.
Do not make a choice
do not make an answer
label masochism with self immolation
and I pull my teeth out
to prevent the gnashing
that will come.


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