Cracks Part Two: Spit (Replete)

All the way lost out here

Plodding along paths muddied with my name

Dripping in well-earned melancholy

Throwing batteries at God.

I exist as a rotten seed in a briar of wet roses

Sick of the piercing whiles of unseen places.

Fences snarled with ancient maple branches

Decrepit, heavy, dust in your lungs.

A tear wiped from a hidden eye

Our shadows not seen for weeks

The sun makes your shoulders shine

A nearby bonfire

Ripped open clothes.

The pale form, the dew, the sun

Fading like glass in smoke

The day of our bodies

Baleful are they Baleful are they.

Suck the lip of tyranny

The rim of my cupped hands

The whine of your touch fucks promises on asphalt

Exhaled around the ache.

The triumphant bloom of our sickness

This calamity

Your choice.

A cleaner room on whiter sheets

She said without irony

“That’s true My people They really love a good bloody massacre.”