Grief Machine (unfinished

Twisted wires conspire

without intentional fallout

winding and whirring

a clockwork thing

a grief machine

impulse to pleasure

not to please

jab sharp metal

and the sweet sting

is it my fault?

pain makes me sing

serpents for a brain

body made of holes

wandering distractions

in plying emptiness

with vices aplenty

and visions of destruction

your hands around my neck

pressure on the skin

and eyes that say stop

but I don’t want to appease

and only pretend to concede

so squeeze if you please