my adenoid shakes hands with the devil

Cut, cut, cut, another line again, to the pit of hell, to the adenoid within,
You feel its power, burning desire to control your every word—or lack there of,
To hold your feelings hostage by its chemical devices, the weapons you hold
To fight off the tumultuous terror, you can smell your fear, only help to mask
The real disguise: original sin, for it is not your fault you’ve become what you are,
It is genetic, heralded as perfection alluring another’s lost soul, it is hereditary, you
Tell yourself at night, this is not my fault: but then, who’s to blame? You seem to think
That the justification is in your suffering, you’ve come so far with it, so far it seems to be
Without the medicine to cure the ailing cry for a cartoon freedom, the howl for a smooth
Transition to the next world, a scream to enter the place where all will fall at your feet,
As though you are some junky Jesus, healing the sick while riding the horse along the ranges
Of retreating stars, and although there is nothing to say while the play continues, the harvest
Of sadness has died, and the elation of the fabricated emotions pushing their way through your
Thin, dried, aging skin, helps you forget all in all this is what you are. Another victory for the
Elixirs, another loss for immoral purity.

these barricades can only hold for so long

Your oasis waits for you, beckoning
For you to come along, join the skeletons
Dancing inside your head, your diseased head,
Filled with vertebra longings for a sordid dream,
The loquacious mumbling ghosts within—
A sullen victory of the senses, to leave, leave it all behind,
To the end of the world, deadly and smarter, faster and slow,
Again you falter when they mention the words of above,
To crash your opium den of fools, singing along with the range
Of stars, the heavenly music of the spheres chiming
In the conversation like a rugged piece of cloth, brittle
But sturdy, fragile but strong.

Do you not see?
The aquarium thoughts you’ve felt creep under your felt skin,
Do you not see?
The aural pleasures of a future dark and dreary as the day
Of your wedding, when all went as planned, and all was lost to
The raging storm of havoc, surprising the bride with the empire
Of your own fabrications, so now, where do you go?
What do you not see?
The sea’s waves shimmer and shine, while skeletons
Dry in a closeted sandy dune.

hallowed hollow anesthetized