i have been in the gallows pit on a pendulum doting over the fineries’ of self indulgent despair. waning into the thin black like butter into a hot black skillet. in the foundry of this all too often wanton of an enigma and fundamental quandary i drag and skulk over bones and pretty things a selfish child does not have when it is wanting to have. and so i beat. and so i flog the hide that holds me in the fold between spirit and no where aching for the death of the foe that will not let me pass over the bridge through the blood blood red door. and the release of me from these fetters is only not to do what i know not to do. to peel back into sanity and unstick myself from a trap on feeling which is done like pulling down the noon sun into the pitch poultice that be night. between spirit and nowhere placed in a hospital bed repose on top of the shadow and light scissored by the slumbering lids of the window blinds is the lump of flesh that was a man that does not know what it feels.