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sweaty palms were clutched to the
tape recorder
that once kept secrets of a palpitating
pillow

with thin dirty hair straws filled with
questions to be answered
he lies without breathing
just to hear the mourning of his own pulse

"it's always a fucking half moon on
new years eve"
the dry lips angrily flooded out
"...and the stars fail me!"

so as the audio repeated itself
a long burned out recorded romance
was now an overdubbed orgy of heart-
broken howls

pale and almost see-through
his skin mostly reminded him of
the flickering bathroom light that
made him sputter and continuously

he stutters

"this I am
this I was
and this is who you will become"

and as the white noise laid to rest
the silence struck as a violent wind
vision started to sting
and his head started to waltz to the
swing of a polluted pendulum

playing dead with open eyes
he slowly places the recorder close to ear
and is left with a lick from a thousand
coffin tongues

"you are listening to a dead man speak"

he was found with the face of a dirty sea rising

tape end

can't stop

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