Sequence Of Equation


Parasitical, it slid under the membranes
Of my scalp, left a slow cold sludge:
The coating of nausea.
This is how I wake
To the metallic taste of nightmares
Rimming my lips,
Like I’ve been licking knives,
Except that my skin should be in spirals
When instead it’s only heavy,
Hungover from blades between bones.
Hand to hair, give it a tug,
Pull out the lethargy and escape from the
Soft confines of the sheets.
Scrape back the morning with
Muted screams tattoed to lids of fire.
Gag and spit
Before the emergence of contractions
Across the pupils.


The gases of a dead dream are composed of
This embryonic equation:
(MAJOR Arcana) x 3 : (minor Arcana) = 9fits9fits9fits.
They enter the skull through
Cerebral hemorrhages, grow translucent legs
By the thousands, with dull amber eyes of diviners
That memorize these labyrinthine dispersions.
Whether this is a state of being
Is a debate that goes like this:
It’s tepid stress and leaves
The inside of the cheek with a taste
Only for bile.
This neural din is
A solar consciousness,
The sundering of all points of corrosion.


(dream sequence, exhibit A.)
Your mouth: an intestinal cavity.


Crippled, this innate filth
Covers the caffeine membranes, scars like stains
That make up the skeletal arsenal
Of this cerebellum, which I
Poke holes through with all those liquids
That glint like a dragon’s eye and tranquilize,
Cauterize with organized inversions.
These arterial branches are
Test patterns, the schema of adorning myself
With remnants of the dead,
Charting this operation interlaced with symmetry.
The subconscious fights to abate, satiate.


(dream sequence, exhibit B.)
This is the pressure of what’s inside.

Liz Worth writes about her nightmares. Sometimes she writes about other things, too. In 2008, she completed the forthcoming oral history Treat Me Like Dirt, which documents the beginnings of the Toronto punk scene. It made her realize she does not want to live in the future.