Poet of Exile

My memory spliced under a banged circuit tooth  
(it was one metaphor spun of spiders — a web dipped from smelted stanza)  
to forget the vice boxcarred before me as agents of my wisp infatuation  
for the cocaine sediment of this world.  

Rocks weightless,  
eaten out, out by igneous cavity onward phallic drilling to cyclic ideals of my own logos.  
The sapien subjects stumble off their brain helms  
as the enjambments blow to the head  
to each model I bellied in its verse.  
 
The vice shanked up to the mercury vein of the thermostat and spilled it over  
into the clouds who, as consequence, rang their sick days in spite of their overcover  
when they had finally beaten in the skyline.  
 
The real world has four corners  
and those are of this page.  
Even I waste to the schizoid shattered bone  
because I have envied just this fruit for meat.  
It is white and read all over  
and tear-able to the reflux.  
 
On the tongue, the word disintegrates like a tablet of SSRI,  
but always above the dosage  
in a spoon of blurry vision  
burnt through by the bulb suns,  
knowing that this reality is not a poem  
as I starve away from it drinking an ink of a cadence overflowed.