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.”