Cassettes and Pocket Monsters

Crimson pauses,
Dripping onto the reels,
I fancy a lick,
On the plastic tapestry,
Awash with scratches,
And eschewed remedies,
Saving a memory just in case,
Just in case,
Reminiscence might end up being,
My only pastime,
The whiff of fresh incisors,
Of a malodorous reverie gnawing away,
The parting cavity of a nascent requiem.

There's almost a macabre vein,
To my puckish pursuit of silver linings,
That define my dolorous penchant for celluloid nothings,
Talk about lucid memories,
There's my frail limbs,
And a brittle grin borne out of oblivion,
A feeble sense of belief,
Such porcelain conviction.

That little bastard withered away,
Under the debris of shattered faith,
The shards swallowed splitting,
Through sheath after sheath,
Of indolent levity,
Visions plastered with pulsating debauchery,
I let my void dig its fucking nails,
Bury them in the tenderness,
Fleece the orifice,
And feed on what now feels like was never there.

Catching flailing bits of doubt,
Trepidations,
Delirious butchery,
The scent of wet soil,
Sticking to my guts,
Reaped by spirit from torn tear tracts,
Held together,
By the gait of a broken thought,
Meticulously thawing out,
Blades and steely resolve,
This pinch for a placebo called hope.

No such thing as a happy ending.