Kyle Bellinger

Cough Syrup

I woke up this morning with blood on the bed sheets.
I was intravenously baptized in the milk of your wounds.
Forever shackled to the smiling stairwell,
With the gaping incision,
While repaving this yellow brick road,
With a flood of Oedipucides.

To separate his shadow would bring only partial justice.
Circumcising the burning rainbow,
Forfeits the pot of gold laced in sin.

Repeatedly, while being drawn and quartered,
I crash the car into a brick wall,
Just to see if the police come.

Radio waves rape our minds to the point of schizophrenia.
I am blaming the hallucinations of post-mortem cough syrup,
That fuel the obsession.

Poised social skills seasoned in ketchup,
Posing as a healing knife wound.
So stitch yourself together,
With mythological, golden lies,
And call yourself cauterized.

I think it's time to bleach the sheets clean,
Lay my head down and wait for the next midnight staining.
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