Bag of skin

Silenting laying across a bed of cards,
listening to the thoughts of a flammable bag of skin.
 
Wondering when this bag of skin will step too close to the flame,
the flame of insanity.... or is it dementia? 
Is there a difference?
 
Bobbling back and forth through an unsteady ocean of coherency.
Will this bag never burn?
I wish this bag would burn, burn until there is nothing left.  Only then may something useful become of this bag.  For the ashes could be turned to mud and mud is surely more useful.
 
Perhaps being hopeful the ashes turn into a brilliant bird of worth would be nice, although there seems to be nothing brilliant or hopeful in this bag of skin.
 
What a noisy bag of skin, can it even hear itself? Does it have ears? Does it enjoy the grating crap it fills the air with? Maybe I could finally feel warmth if I lit this bag of skin myself!?

Empty Glass

In the dreary isolated night of scalded monotone there rings an echoing vibration of joy,

 Self loathsome hot and sticky, slimy, coating of grime, shouts of ignorance and feeble listening ears

   acceptance of redundant  meaningless accolades. 

Walls creeping inward trapping and isolating what is left of the sanity. 

Tiresome, Bothersome, Bitching of an aged drunken boy, unsatisfied standards of double, triple, quadruple quarrelsome quandary quaintly quilted, quirky, caustic and mind numbing. 

Words, loud and boring in my skull like a jackhammer rapping in my ears.

Laughter, laughter of an over grown beast satisfied by stationary glowing boxes of blathering masses of water. 

 Ramblings of ass and beatings and little golden drinks filling your insides with illusionary sunshine. 

Citric, sour and tart tastes left in the mouth from salted banter of booze in scrawny little men. 

Silence fills the air with the walls creeping outward in ecstasy, joy, happiness  and satisfaction.

Silence, the only sound that truly resembles peace and dignified meaning of absolute godliness.

Silence, the purpose for chaotic sounds of callous cowards and old crows.

Silence, the reason a man lives is to once again become silent.

Silence, the cause of worry and awkward woe.

Silence, the feeling of isolation......

Interrupted by the hacking, gagging, gurgling glossy spew of the beast. 

Falsified satisfaction subsided replaced by the conundrum of what is up is down and what is down was up, but if down was up how could up ever be down!?

The rotted smell of bile and tuna fills the air of water closets rested on spinning tops.

Filth covering the floors spinning and swirling and sinking into the porcelain goblet.

Cold, icy water rushing over the steaming, hot, slimy elastic exterior of the skeleton. 

The end is near, the silence looming, peace at last.

Questioning

The mortal is falling, time is an illusion.  

People waiting but waiting is non-existent,  

Is this mortal simply suspended in time and space or is he non-existent?  

The laughter filling the closets of my broken down womb are filling me with anger.  What fucking animal intruded upon my space?  

The lingering moment of irrelevance is laughing at me as I get a grip upon its throat to reign it in.  I have no idea where it will lead me but I find my drum beat will give me sanctuary.  

The laughter is getting stronger and I cannot take it, this hell hole of sanity is breaking, I fear one day I may be free from this sanity and I will no longer…..

No longer be what I ask myself as I look through the mirror.  The empty space that lies beyond is perplexing in all its imagining and I have come to believe the mirror is not real. 

These images flashing through my mind have not waned as I have seen fit, yet they have made a home within my heart.  

How can we be without, but feel so full? 

Is it simply filled with gas?