What is the point?

I'm told a proposal was expected,

Last night and every other passed holiday, apparently,

Mouse trap on the retreating heart,

Tears flow like blood,

So I pace like murder, whilst shame thickens the air,

Outside the day is passed,

Such revelry tends to escape me,

When water gleamed invitation,

In her silk wedding dress, I stared at the sun,

She was perfect, and I kept my distance,

As we leapt from land to wed the water,

Turning over exhaustively, skin sticking to, sliding with, stuck against skin.

Dorian bats a hand at his brow, wiping away accumulated grey grease. Pushing his knees away from his chest, against the darkness, light dapples his face. Breathing in the light, he exhales, letting his knees fall back once again, bathing himself in his familiar darkness.

Hours later, woken by suffocation, water runs across Dorian’s spine, drips off his nose and streams into his lungs. Splurting buckets, his choking washes away morning breath and his day has begun ticking.

Sweating, unseen hairs itching, Dorians wonders “Is the fungal smell coming from my decaying brain and shapeless body, or rather this condensed pit of sounds, blank portraits and erupting pimples in the cloud of days stitched together” “Without Emotion am I currently just a mass on scales ?”

“Is that a just view to hold?”

“What is just?” “Does it concern me?”

“The cold touch of metal plates on my nudity, as I slide down and across to and from one firm plate to another, echoes through my body, yearning to fill its shoes.”

Direct, Conversation online in my head, computer on it’s back on my bed, My favourite angel lies, As I break down my own disguise, I disappear to the bathroom to stare, Yet lying on your back on my bed, I can count the ones and zeros in your words,

And there I saw it, In an empty courtyard, Lights Flashing,

My heart, Outside my mouth, Turning grey with a thin film of plasma, In the thick sick city air,

My confusion reflecting my surroundings, But I’m not that homeless man gulping wine. Not here, Dancing in the slow sharp rain,

Daring it to touch my crown, Ache in absence of glasses with which I might see how the city sleeps.

Basil, My basil,

Will my flounder be your end,

Your leaves dance and wilt,,

 I’m vexed,

Puzzles stretch before me,

Stuck in this lonely space,

You became my saving grace,

 Every green cap bowed,

Looming,

Glooming, it reflects me,

 My eye is set on the moon,

Watching it orbit,

Waiting for the sun,

To raise these heads,

Crack the earth,

Dry my sweat ridden life,

 Shaking behind curtains,

Looking to the moon on my knees,

 In disbelief of what is real,

5:15 again, outstretched on a short bed,

Thinking of how I may lay,

Were I not awake,

 Short aggressive beeps,

Stretch and pop at me,

Like an attack on bubble wrap,

Stiff fumbling hugs,

The smell of disappointment wanders from my pocket pipe,

An uncomfortable release,

Drives me back,

To the safe clutches of energy,

 Sapped, I creak,

Joints dry,

Brain breaking its irregularity with a new wave,

At maximum interference,

Havoc wreaked through,

Now jigsaw pieces can’t try hold each other together,

Steamed by tense heat,

Now my eyes,

A tree,

Dying,

Alone,

In the middle of a bog,

              I see an empty champagne bottle in first class carriage,