Diagnosis

and the cigarettes are always red. to signal the impending death.The shirt is white.stained by  music.
Black Angels.loud as to not hear myself thinking.
the shirts are white. stained some more. a hemorrhage of bleeding wine bottles. there is no soothing to this sickness only a slight amelioration of the symptoms. I spill my rights on sidewalks, puking nicotine and blood.
where do my vitamins go?this body is a slaughterhouse for health.
the pages are splitting head memories of days where i fall asleep fully clothed.
oh where do I go?
give me drums to overwhelm the headaches. give me water to quill the muscle cramps.
i am deaf and heaven always signals with flares, with traffic lights. my face in the mirror begs for destruction. my tongues twists and contors. purple as the autumn sky. i'm looking for something to kill, other than myself. and I yell: FUCK! FUck!
these coathangers stab at my life. the suits inhabiting them only pull to an anesthesia of the soul.
I fall asleep drunk. I awake drunker still.
And there is no grand finale.