Vessel
Remove my eyes so I can escape the wrinkling of time. A posture bent by gravity while the sun leathers my flesh. The future holds nothing but the holes in my excuses. The shit that will fester and make me a nuisance. A boil on the flesh, to be carved out. Remove my tongue and my jaw ajar with spineless words. Surrounded by dirt and trash, a perfect flint for my immolation. Hell is hope and its monuments.
The romanticizing of my future, like anybody has one. Prophetic words regurgitated pretending philosophies are real next to the cold calculation of a universe governed by absolutes. Food for the bugs that seize me when visitors on my skin. The meaningless vessel that deserves the future it never asked for.
Writer/s: Peter King, Justin Moore, Erol Ulug, Alejandro Aranda
