desperation is being in
a constant state of prayer,
stuck in thinking I
lost the thought race and
now I’m lodged on Pluto
the burnt lullabies
turned into spoons and
continue to feed us
rotten soup
the daily dining, the
sordid feast of bones
flaying
browning in the plains
in graying child’s hair, I wander
in gin soaked skin I wander
in the fetid husks of dreams,
I wander
when she howls, I must
lips and teeth become
blood jewels on our skin
but when skin behaves like paper then
it’s time to move on
and seek our thrills
in the cove behind the grave
we knew more when
we had less to see
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 10:34 PM UTC
desperation is being in
a constant state of prayer,
stuck in thinking I
lost the thought race and
now I’m lodged on Pluto
the burnt lullabies
turned into spoons and
continue to feed us
rotten soup
the daily dining, the
sordid feast of bones
flaying
browning in the plains
in graying child’s hair, I wander
in gin soaked skin I wander
in the fetid husks of dreams,
I wander
when she howls, I must
lips and teeth become
blood jewels on our skin
but when skin behaves like paper then
it’s time to move on
and seek our thrills
in the cove behind the grave
we knew more when
we had less to see
Inspired in part by Diane di Prima's Loba
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