editorial (scrap piece of paper)

it was still dark when
i rolled out of bed
& crawled into the bathroom
where i commenced to vomit
until my stomach was drained.

for awhile i laid naked
on the cold tiled floor
until i went into
a hard coughing fit.

then i stood up &
spit blood into
the snow white sink
where i stared in the mirror
at my dying eyes through the
splatters of red dots that escaped
the confines of the sink bowl
by jumping up onto the surface
of the reflecting glass.

i brushed my teeth

& watched the blood & foam
spiral down as they were
sucked away from me.

i turned on the shower
& sat upright in the bathtub
listening to the water
bounce off my skin.

i dried off

went back to bed &
wept quietly at the
tower of my agony.

once i had collected myself

i rose

& came over to my desk
where i lit a single candle
for all the desolate ones.

& i'll spend the rest of the night
writing this down
since iíve got nothing else to do
until my funeral.

ghost (nihilistic extension)

iím floating through the streets.
my feet are on fire.
my mouth is full of ash.
the dirty black streets
are vacant.
all the heroes
are destroyed.
iím holding my golden hammer
& putting my blindfold on.
i donít need eyes anymore.
i can just follow the familiar pulse
into a pool of old dying bones.
i donít need eyes anymore
to be able to throw razor-blades
into the open empty night &
whip my mind against
the torture walls.

iím chained to mortal beauty
& thirsting for more.
iím draped with dark ribbons
& dressed in rags.
i'm caving in
at the feet of women.

i want to fuck
i want to scream
i want to become


by tonguing at their inhibitions.

i want to smoke an eternal cigarette
& splash the puddles
collected on the street
then go walk
on top of the sky.

but letís do another shot
of disenchanting whiskey
right out of
a nihilistic glass--

because nothing matters &
nothing matters &
i haven't got
any money
so i canít go anywhere
i haven't got
any money
so i canít go
& the streets really
are just empty...

my spirit is denied.

Chris Kornacki was born, raised, and sadly, still lives in Windsor Ontario,
Canada. He works in a factory that makes car bumpers and other various
automotive parts. He's had poems appear in remark, the divine animal, zygote
in my coffee, open wide, my favorite bullet, and other places. Send him a
computer virus at:

© 2004 Underground Voices