cold blue is blood red

pump.

i am the swollen beating heart
that never knows why
when each cell
each plasma-filled membrane
each extraneous extremity
has swallowed a sufficient
saturation of oxygen and the cold
blue discs come hurtling back through
the streets with last year’s garbage
that some sick neuron of a
soporific straining pumps pumps
pumps a pulse electrifying
my spine and forcing my
heart
to give life to my
lips
that speak the words that have cut
at the throat of so many
conveniently turned backs to my
tongue
that swallows katrina’s of
foreign saliva and has performed cunnilingus
on onetoomany a rose to my
fingers
each and all that have punched
and typed and shushed and pulled
and fingered and squeezed and twisted
one-too-many times each and
all to my
eyes
that have torn the clothes off the respected
respectable woman and have pinned her to
the floor my remorseless gasps
absorbing her screams gripping her fingers
tighter for one more
one more even though the carpet burn
is hurting her knees
and finally to my
brain
that through new and abandoned convictions
keeps pump pump pumping neurons to
my shriek of a heart for the next round of
reality tv shows starring shrines of beautiful
gossamer ghouls
but no
i’m no philosopher no misanthrope
i’m just sitting on my chair (you know that black
leather rolling chair that my dad bought me
for christmas a few years back) bent over
the chaotic sea of raped
trees on my desk writing a poem on
a thursday night after a long talktomyself shower
draining time before my favorite tv show
10 pm eastern.

now the pump pump pump begins to slow
and as the choking grays of the walls
and ceiling sink me into flannel
pillows into final lonely terror (or dreams)
because i’m just too tired to masturbate
i clutch my hand to my breast
and begin to love my heartbeat.