Unpronounced Suitcase Literature – Timothy Zero

November 27, 2019

Apathetica

 

Soon there will be practiced emotions.
Soon there will be auditioned obituaries.
Soon there will be choreographed life.

 
Time released predictions will guide us through our days, not unlike
traffic lights. Our automobile replicas, rituals without a firing pin,
rubber knife murders will grind down the teeth of our spontaneity.
 
And we have already begun to enjoy it.

 

Furry Runaways

 

The night watchmen
make their nest
in nearby crooks
of art deco alleyways.

With their fur blankets
made from the skin of
runaway children with
hypertrichosis.

They take a hiatus from
drowning prostitutes
in pot holes filled with
rain water and LSD.

Goodnight…
You evil bastards.

 

Divest    

                                                      
I pull on my outer skin
Peeling the dead parts away,
But nothing’s alive anymore
That is until I come to the
Cold steel like commencement of reality
And our deepest reality (mania) and fear.
Did you catch a glimpse of the real me
before I buried it away?
Lying to you with my dying breath.
Though everyone will forgive me for
My sinful deeds.
Damnit! Can’t you see?
That makes it worse!
I am a living disease.
A freak that slipped through the
Grasp of Darwinism

 

Dreaming of Submission

I think I shall sellout

I think I will boil my

Dreams into a submission

of nothingness.

Give all my thoughts

a terminal disease,

make them aware of

their end.

And without a second’s

notice become a

distant lover,

and walk away

from the truth.

I will bury myself

with self doubt

as a rotting quilt

of human skin to

keep me warm.

 

Here Comes the Flood

 

When empires fall dying,
we cope by closing our eyes
from the encounter
of atrocity.

Our realms are edited
to our bedroom doorways
and neutered buddy movies
on TV.

To occupy our minds
near guilt’s precipice.

To shut out the
collapsing chaos.

 

Candycorn Teeth

Teeth with candycorn implants wilt in the palm trees like
a tatterdemalions sleeve of wino sputum,
snail trail glistens up his.
Harm me not old man…
I just came to homage to the dumpster.
failing to understand, failing to get the snow drift
dredge albino blanket blessed with frost bit edges that
cause immediate surgery.

 

Chatterly

 

All I see are people

talking to their hands.

Ignoring the physical,

the living.

Their pallid existence.

Their TV opium…

Ossified skin

starving out all forms

of connection with the outside.

All I see are people

talking to their hands.

 

Chekhov’s Gun

 

“I suffer from chronic consciousness.”
I tell my chiropractor. “I sleep but, I am
conscious of it. I never reach R.E.M. sleep.
I am trapped in the now, and I am not at
home with that knowledge.”
“You should go home and eat a flag from
Guam or of equal or lesser continental value.”
Doc said.
He stares into my wisdom.
But I feel like a mirror that’s been
painted black.

 

Reaching

        

My hands bound.
A smile on his face.
A belligerent will ready to break mine.
My eyes drift back into their sockets
Giving over to his strength
The crying stopped long ago
And every time the belt meets my skin
I feel a little bit of myself slip away.
All gone.
Reaching.
This is the only way.
The only way.
For him to feel.

 

Cicada Boogie   

 

Reject your conception 

of a beautiful thing.

Reject your vagrant of

the month. 

Reject your eyes 

that give the game away.

Reject my voice that  

remains in you 

like an echo.