Liquid Beats

Another prick scratch.

I am written in crimson
And crimson is written in me.
Another circulation
Pumped pushed
Sucked
Back out again
A fist in my chest
Closing and gripping
Releasing and leading
Till never and rot.

It’s a
Vital reminder in my ear
Not of the liquid that still gushes
Behind my eyes,
But how rarely
It is in front of them.

In the West we have no mind
For having no mind
We are isolated
And immortal.
The dead do not walk with us
Or lie,
Where we lie.

They sit
Lay
Comforted by
Green or white
Full body blankets
In houses built for their vanity.
They reek of vile liquids
Not our liquids
That keep them beautiful,
Prepped and made,
Until we put them in a box
To be tossed
Into the soil or the flame.

So I march to a beating drum
Of inconstant rhythm
Banging in my chest
Pumping my liquids
And pushing me forwards

But I just wish,
That when I become silent,
It would shut up .

So that for once,
I could finally sleep.