Coke & Soda
insect vetted,
air tinted,
as I feel it sinned,
impaled, then pull it out: cumulus nimbus, jaw drops to see the earth slide, / rewind to do it some more.
dirty fingers and a tiny fissure in the hour glass— no, no, you can’t mend that, so neatly snap it in half, and hear it crunch beneath your heel: the sound of a vile epitaph, like flame to a viper’s tail: watch it impulsively chase itself, let time bend to its will,—- after all, there is no time: time is overkill,—
thus, as they look and they peer, the black mirror tells on itself,::::: it’s clearly me fucking me with reruns of pink lips glitching in the dark (a portable heater
propped up in front of me, continually running during the dead of summer)— alone, yet not alone— counting stones when what I needed was a single bullet for the revolver in the pant pockets next to me—-
so there I sit, speaking in dark tongues, kissing darker suns that are only inverted shadows: shadows that left my steps long ago, ones that implore with “true” language, their language, the language from before: “sorry, sorry, sorry: tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow”, but everything melts cleanly together:::: “you are sorrow”.
I turn myself upside down to witness a smile with my floating self, — in actuality, the video feed cut off, and I accidentally turned my mirror 180 degrees—- :::: the second thing I notice is the blood from my bare foot, a nice little puddle on the floor because I had intentionally stepped on something—-
oh well,::::
all i want is another time,
another “again” —
AG Davis is an author, performance artist/poet and composer from Jacksonville, Florida. His work often delves into the aphotic side of the human psyche, exploring the multifaceted realms of psychosis. He is currently institutionalized.
