Flounder By Ezhno Martin

When you can smile,
with visions of chunky black hot shots
dancing on your arms...
you can tell me it's the junk stealing my soul.

When you...
are so lucky,
as to try to fall in love
with these sentiments squalor poisoning your tongue
your senses dulled beyond salvation
you can hypothesize the miracles I'll find
when I get sober..

The void on which I lay waiting for a beautiful train wreck
is something that lends itself to my melancholy mondays
moreover I'm predisposed to marvel at my masochism
  fleshy eucharist shoved
into my literal manifestation of self inflicted mirages of missed matrimony...

junk is the only fucking thing that makes sense
when you're laying in the same shit
you sent to hell,
 only to stumble face first into
with a fire eating grin
time after time
broken promise after broken promise
again and again.

And when you can conclude,
in shame, as you skip town
    that there's no one left to blame,
but yourself
blastoff boys
I do believe black tar becomes benign

in Burroughs equation for a junkie...

you'll be a cripple on the couch afraid of everything but dreams of soft rain...
spike of smack or not...

I'm waiting for that moment of clarity,
but it's overly apparent my demon isn't the denude
it's always wanting more than I'm meant for;
the stars are out of reach
and the more of them I see,
the more I want to blur them
into a lake of fire that can't touch me.



About Ezhno Martin:
According to Bob Phillips -- Toledo's Best Poet, and an old man who knows every prostitute between Flint Michigan and Cleveland Ohio -- "Ezhno's does what Ezhno does and goes around fucking up everything."