enervated anvils...

  
    All my life it seems that I’ve done nothing but carry anvils. Anvils arriving in the aluminum jowls of my mail box, anvils arriving in the shape of arrears with decimal marks for an education I no longer remember receiving. Anvil arriving in overdue ATM statements and bank fees, credit being no good for an anvil salesman, anvils looking down into the ocular lens of my phone and wanting to hear her voices fired in  the fluttered symphony of a rapid text, wanting to feel the blip of her smile, anvils  working for third shifts for ten years and feeling exhausting all the fucking time, exhausting from lugging anvils.

How it feels in a way for the past five years I monopolize my time bench pressing failure, thrusting the horizontal tube flitted with sand weights into the distilled  emptiness above my forehead,  hoisting  aching anvils of pain into the studded breath of the past in dissipating humps.

Trying to jettison the burden of metric lead. 

 All these years I am still lugging  a crooked suitcase of anvils,  the weight of hurt nailing anvils in lieu of Christmas wreathes on the magna carta advent seal of my seasonal apartment door.  All these years later I am still playing the part of Charlie. I am still soliciting anvils in that lobby. I am still endeavoring to get rid of all the weight I have been carrying around  for the past twenty years.

 Anvil used as buoy, a life raft to a childhood all too lost. Sticking my tongue to a anvil in the first week of January so I can feel my own breath escaping in tufted bulbs of hurt .

Anvils shaped like an errant bridal bouquet she carried in the direction of someone that wasn't me. Anvil  not having the Mayor Shinn approved credentials. Anvils the anemic academic, wishing I had an anvil to push of the crest of the university where I mortgaged my loins.  Anvils exchanged no questions asked, carrying a 12 pack home every morning trickling the tips of my fingers into an unsuspecting keyboard while pounding away falling, unconscious, in a sea of aluminum shards.

Anvils pendulous and liver heavy caked in the bra-strap of flesh. My cock a fleshy fist sized anvil dangling like a pendulum between the albino circumference of my thighs.

Wishing I could plop an anvil on the brothers who have betrayed me, the souls who have hurt me, their bodies, toppled by the unassuming gravitational wallop of an oversized hammer,  a listless frosting  indebted into the front of the sidewalk, stuck like childhood adhesive to the bottom of my forgotten running shoe. 

A Feeling the anvil of my heart  plod in ruffled purrs inside my chest  as I am unable to sleep. The feeling of being kissed for soliciting anvils while allowing the fraud (who in the dream-sync world is also myself) fugitive away, the shadow of a needed dream.

Anvils.

 

How I wish I could unmanacle myself from the this burden,  walking to the prow of an unknown ship,  the rusty albatross tanked from the stem of my neck, twenty years of hurting all the time only to find myself  floating faced down, the abrasive ribbons of the oceans brushing over the listless hub of my anatomy.

 

All is gone.