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.”