icy freedom cracks the hull
death's ode screeching to a hault
i named the ratchet in my skull
"Stillbourne Small, the catapault"

found wading in marshy bogs of chuke
saved by crows and carrion alive
woven by blood and the almighty nuke
seeds from whence i was derived

perfect gods and perfect men
can't live outside their pastel pens
there's work to do: the dirty, the wet
and i haven't bought my freedom yet

the wretched dregs of manic
will soon bury me with pages
and panic, and
the never-ending pieces of sentences
words that never bind, without exits
for the exists, nor entrances.

that's the last i remember of my mortal coil.
the next, I know with a tonguing, nagging uncertainty
that I was finally awake: 

steel placards of the afterlife
backed up to purgatory's docks
filing out, one by one 
into the foo-familiar mysts:

this

this feels enough like home
to know that it isn't.