More or less?

More depravity to feed my nights.
More caress and sweet touches to land on lips
that have never parted more widely.
More quaking hearts and staggering souls
that up-heave and upchuck a life built in vain.

In the vain of progression I’m turning into a tall wad
with a wide chest and heavy stomach,
a man with a brick laden soul chugging tequila
in lieu of a smoldering apartment.

I'll take more and something will give it.
Something has to give.
Whether it's icy patched pills to be inhaled
in a burning nose on a foggy night in a book covered dorm,
or molten lava leaves blowing smoke
into crimson red lungs, while I gasp and up-heave
once more to make things clear.

Because messages are exchanged and words drift,
but they land on ears connected to lips that talk twice as fast
and move like wind-surrounded bags on a quiet evening night.
In the end the words spread to other words and the collision is bleak
and inherently fruitless.

These exchanges, magnifications, and elucidations
of more pour down into the rooftop,
and we speakers drown in noise.
We scream, giving more fuel.
This apathetic nod is directed towards the ceiling.

The clay man will bake in his internal heat.
Misty word covered poems will sink fast as
Backroom poets see castles fall
in the background of powder particles making their rounds in and out of awareness
The nod is complete.
The village burned.
The esoteric cries tied up and left to land on the wind.
The throats fill with their burning words and we're forced to let the room submerge.