by Travis L. Martin

Quetiapine me a lullaby
With cochlear curses that
Oscillate deeper and deeper until
Sertraline nerves expose
The grey-spectrum of
Venlafaxine’s optic nerve.

The Jack of Clubs’s clutch on
The larynx strangles profanity, forcing
Empty eye-sockets to stare lock-fixed
At hollow spectaculars, echoing sounds
Of the necrotic chokes
“Clonaz,” “Alpraz,” and “Hydrox.”

The inhibited serotonin spectrum
Paves over bone in grey asphalt flesh.
False flesh feels except for the memories
Left in the marrow, memories burning
Brilliant through flesh and time, taunting,
“I will break your fucking mold.”