Living like this, through years-worth of wine-stained
painting on canvases of lying lips,
always breaking, always confused
with nothing left I’d hate to lose,
no single cell free of abuse;
through days trailing nights of half-honest,
worst forms of self-help:
the drink, the drugs & the meaningless fucks.
Finding then failing to hold onto love.
An endless mire in which to wallow,
& cover myself in the mud.
Carving a semblance of meaning
by short-selling future living.
Scavenging for real or former feelings
to feed the worms that never stop eating.
Desperate grasps for hopeful moments,
for some sweetly fleeting comfort…
This is what it is to be in pieces,
to be comforted by your diseases:
these interchangeable scenes, these
dislocated repeating memories,
hoping for something beyond me,
for protection by all these words,
but all along I was wrong:
words are no protection at all.
Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part i