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Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt

I lay before you my present:


prosthetically decapitated head;

well decorated with crystals;

synthetic beads;

a barbed wire pierced through

the iris. 


Hungry men before me:

I examine, I hear the borborygmus,

tingling sensation when my plastic bones

crack and break the ceilings.


A mirror on the wall 

where mother used to lean her idealism against.


Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow,

which is not native to this house:

as her now demeanor, 

as her now demeanor,


repeating, reeling and reeling

as I sit trying to weave,

for my soft dreams

have now become plagued

long before I dared to sleep my heavy.


As a belt:

I lay my body

as they try to fit the loose holes

to fit my thinness.

My insides as they churn 

from a deafening machine


audibly discernible so my father could hear,

yet faint as his late regrets.

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