Gettysburg Pillow...

Goddamn I am.

It's funny and somewhat sad
that whilst all this chaos is swirling around me,
I am falling apart from the inside as well.
My body is sending me silly messages,
that cannot be ignored.
I have little feeling in my left hand for most of the day.
And my nose bleeds in my sleep.
My pillow
when I rise,
looks like the battle of Gettysburg.

What is happening?

Did she know something that I didn't?
Was I cast off because my machine was broken and doomed?
Was I no longer alpha material?
Could she smell the decay?

I have been next to expired souls.
I have sat thru dissections
and the digging.
The smell is something that you never forget.

Do I wear this smell?
Have I made it my own?
Am I the anonymous body on the steel table?
Am I?
Goddamn I am.

And still I rise.

My guess is,
my nose bleeds,
because my delicate sensibilities
are not used to old baseboard heaters.
And my left hand is numb,
from jerking off so much.

But the baseboard heaters aren't turned on.
And my mule and I haven't shook hands in awhile.

So what is happening?

I know this...
I am out treading water
on the rippled black fabric of life
just steps away from my back door.

And as of late,
the ice has moved in.
And even if you thought you could sink
beneath the ebony and magenta cover,
it would talk an axe and strong shoulders,
or a fourteen inch two stroke powered blade,
to cut thru this mess and find the black sleep beneath.

Goddamn I am.
I am Murdoc.
And my tears don't matter much.