Paralysis
Nails detached, skin grated off, bones -
I've looked it up, they're called distal phalanges -
sharpened on the lid of the coffin.
Cul-de-sac, or the typical buried alive scenario,
there's definitely no room for movement.
It couldn't have been so bad, except it was,
and then it was and it was and it is,
K like a dog then K dead mid-sentence -
look it up, he's called K -
K-esque those never ending songs the coffin sings,
strike me deaf, it couldn't be so bad.
Sick imagining Sisyphus is happy, too.
He's probably gone under that boulder by now,
little to the concern of Camus La Mouche - Squish,
if only K's insect had expired so quickly, -
and gone with phalanges like knife edges
carbon black from campfire sparks, maybe
something landed on his face and he let go, squish,
either way the concern is stuck in my back
and I'm butting heads with my reflection.
Try a submarine, imagine engine dead imagine,
walls of such and such dimensions and so on -
must read that piece again some time -
stuck where the light wouldn't waste its zeit,
and I'm the geist - look it up, but imagine
that this insular epi-being never could -
wishing I could pass through the boundaries
and lie on the cold black sand. Squish.
Nails pink with a tiny white crescent, though,
as there's no scope for blind panic violent
fits of rage though it was and is ever so bad.
Causation need only take its deterministic course,
conduct its trial and take me to the quarry,
fingers clean and dry meanwhile tapping and pressing
fading white tombstone shapes into ghost skin,
capillary refill to keep me topped up, buzz,
just enough strength to tap the window again
and joust with the geist outside. Buzz, it's a draw.
Like Schrödinger's dog, simultaneously pardoned and executed
for all that those at the surface could know,
or a configuration of Conway's game -
there's something else for your search engine dead imagine -
initial conditions set, end determined, squish,
everyone else's game still blinking, flashing and buzzing
with the end of time looking no different
for anything I might have undertaken to do.
How about this: the submarine is in Glasnevin,
without even a periscope to wave at tourists,