Saturday, July 31, 2021

Scratch Until Flesh Tears

 

strange hunger like cursed wolves many half humans—bled like demons dripping purity too removed to die in you. ghetto omens poolhall pain a friend we wonder its definition. fighting like heathens, unbred for poison, eating syrup. a death in me a mother in me a feeling left to bankruptcy. begging for peace, hung on a tree, the land is cursed at midnight. have we heard, in a gut, a curse is mostly submittable?

 

I sit in boxes petting a cheetah conversing with a leopard—so philosophical, so psychological, when speaking of changing spots. I’ll change. How? you require training you ignore it. hard stares, deeper breath-mints, so solo they see a casualty. so much causality much nihilism, at poverty too long to act normal. like a robot, no room for performances, where one falls uncertainty. her eyes glisten. she needs realism. I’m t knees faulting what I achieve. a burning countenance, a little office, they wonder what I speak about.

 

cranberries with gin. a cigar with honey. a man’s woman asking intimate details. we disappear in fire at a furnace close to fruition. brown crowns green tenderness I’ll never leave you! by a red fox in a blue haven too sexy to feel correct. much losing in sinning, much winning in transgression, Love trespassed my morals. I’m losing ethics, encompassed in needing, we’ve too many regrets.

 

drinking wilder waters riding a raft so undercut in her entrance. begging for mercy. looking transfixed. so much gods kept him evil-innocence.

 

so unsung upon a gumdrop too reversed to unsin—sunk into a situation, Love dying so gripped living wilder than rabbits.

 

I’ll be last in line, more passion than myriads, hard-times in bleeding excellence. a pocket filled, a chain on neck, too much jewelry to feel rested. a cold altitude, a colder attitude, expecting others to cease with devil-art.

 

whose to say in you, whose to play ball in you, whose to be granted sex in you? I never cared, until evident, looking for forever open to liaisons. it seems self-prophecy, insufficient glasses, aches in bolts screaming.                     I walk further!

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...