The Bloody Lover of Time

Tick Tock.
There's a deep beating of a
bloody clock
nailed to the wall.
You're a nest breaker
with the cracking of the eggs
underneath the thin layer of static
we're walking on.
There's a stretching sensation
of time spreading thin
as the cells snap, breaking
and drowning within the bruises.
I delight in the sadistic side of your love
as I watch it bouncing down
the steps and into the glass,
smashing and cracking
the delicate frame
you've placed yourself in.
Tick Tock.
Tick Tock.
It's not as if you can rip
the hands apart,
smashing the fingers as they stretch towards the hours.
We can break the eggs
and drink the yokes,
letting them run yellow down
the fronts of our clothes,
soaking and dying,
molting and shredding
the remains of this
broken relationship
while mixing a glass of
wine.

Bald Moon

You know I dream of a
bald moon,
pale in the remnants of a sickness
floating on the surface of the skin,
frothing within the veins
and piling high behind my eyelids.
I'll pool in the blood,
mark 'cross the darkness
as I step forwards across the hollow bridge
while the soft
sick sounds of reality snapping
echo around my flesh and
through the hollow curves of my bones until
I'm dying
again and again
within the sheets of a murder,
all white,
all damned,
slowly smoked apart and served
upon glass dished with the semblance of
your screams.

You know I wish that this
was over.