Deathcore Poem by Artchil Daug

The headphone slams into his eardrum a nail
that growls blood inch by inch towards his shallow
Sunday morning spent standing by the sidewalks
and nesting in local stores in that little city of Bais
in the coast of Negros that remained unreachable in Google Maps
because of an anomaly in space-time that enveloped
the entire place with a steel placenta covering its secrets
with deathcore white noise that tickles the fancy
of this boy who taught himself an imagination surpassed
only by his lack of—Sorry, we have no imagery here.

the computer app complained in a way it can do,
unable perhaps to process the number of bits found
for la ciudad de los muertos capable of culturing uncultured
people and the boy we found ourselves plagued with
a fascinating case of deathcore dementia present in
humans incapable of existing beyond the
horizon of their—Sorry, we have no imagery here.

another error, most likely a result of continually deluding
himself of participating in the ruckus of metal concerts
in Manila or the bourgeois island life of Boracay, both
eluding him because of his very poor predisposition in life
demonstrated by the scars of his existence presented as tattoos,
which appear as chaotic tubes ready to supply his blood
with alcohol, a result of deathcore—Sorry, we have no imagery here.

ignoring the error, the boy believed to drink himself to death
as if he was still alive when he was lying in the city plaza dying
from an explosion of deathcore playing in his eardrum—

Sorry, we have
no imagery

here.