La Brea Tar Pits (Pseudomonas Putida)

I awaken from what can hardly be called sleep

Starving as if I had two stomachs to feed

An ebb and tide of images in my mind of the two of you keeps my gut painfully empty

The tar boils and churns

I carve out and deny these infections on my soul and watch as they spawn a life of their own

Leaving snail trails of scars over what little of me is still pure

As they crawl towards where the tar boils and churns

Aborted parts of my psyche are all found nourishing themselves at these pits

Bubbling forth from the recesses of my mind where all I am slowly falls in

Abominations of my being incessantly teething

I awaken from what can hardly be called sleep

Starving as if I had two stomachs to feed

An ebb and tide of images in my mind of the two of you keeps my gut painfully empty