The Ink is Hot

letters that aren't existing because the pen has not kissed the paper yet and when it did hands strangled them to death and sent them flying to the trash can. the letters in the alphabet cannot help define the emotion in the pen and the ink is hot, bubbling at the spark of some other world, that has a disconnect to my heart and the rewiring of the paper to the pen is causing hardships on the mind and the mind becomes heavy, like boots, with rocks, heavy rock boots. look in the refrigerator and define this moment by it's contents, tell me something about the vodka in your ice box, it reminds the soul of the heart, a drunk frenzy of frozen vodka, on the rocks, not the same rocks from the boots. taking those boots and taking the trash out and letting the words of the ink on the paper be blended into the baby shit of the diapers on your neighbour has just tossed in there and everything you've written and spoken and thought goes away to the landfill of broken shit and what you've always done is shit. talking shit. thinking shit. the compost of recycled images dosed in the frozen vodka, on the rocks, that is a passage into the dark of your corrupted, flatlining soul. the words of pages, all blank, meaning everything and nothing, coexisting in the exact same places, and there is no missing link, you have yet to connect the dots.