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CHRIS KORNACKI
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 i’ve got nothing else to do until my funeral. ghost (nihilistic extension) i’m 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. i’m holding my golden hammer & putting my blindfold on. i don’t need eyes anymore. i can just follow the familiar pulse into a pool of old dying bones. i don’t need eyes anymore to be able to throw razor-blades into the open empty night & whip my mind against the torture walls. i’m chained to mortal beauty & thirsting for more. i’m 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 visible 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 let’s 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 can’t go anywhere i haven't got any money so i can’t go anywhere & 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: christopher_k@hotmail.com |
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© 2004 Underground Voices |
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