Room 202

It's obvious that she's been around for a while with her
decaying connections.
Her form is a testimony to her mother, who is cheating death in a Florida hospital,
connected to wires and tubes,
pale and loveless like a hydraulic puppet from a 50s B movie,
seen only at 3 in the morning,
which now feeds on shadows in a museum that is just beyond her finger tips.
She knows there are just so many ways you can change the definitions of your own passing
making it an art form out dieing in fragments or jumping in with both feet into the swarming lights of addiction.
Her junkie fingers caressing a pack of cigarettes and valium
The monkey came knocking along time ago for a fee that goes beyond the currency of flesh.
This is hunger on the cellular level,
thousands of tiny mouths waiting to feed on synthetic skin.
But,
there are times she still smiles in the face of what remains of her,
in defiance
as if dying and fucking were the same act.
The motions I have to admit are similar.
This is the price of living too long in a skin that sleeps to hide its terrestrial form,
that reeks into the hallways of cheap buildings where flies gather in lust and pay homage to her,
that is,
her canceled form behind the door
while the funeral fires grow bright in the voided night.
And pall-bearers flood the room with formaldehyde and I raise the flag to half mass in the memory of her
now that she's gone.

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