bleeds through pages, soaking
black and heavy into strings of wood
stretched to breaking, pressed too tight.
Others are scratched into open wounds,
dyeing blood reds magenta
as they crust into scars. Permanent.
Names painted in defiance
for the greater good. Thoughts
called into being by blues
and reds, and greens, and
halting greys as they spill
their living guts onto pages lines
with ink. Printers’ ink, that is—
different from all the other kinds.
Lighter, duller, marking things no one
should cross. Making boundaries.
Those inks are too cold to bleed,
too stiff and flat to stain a **** thing.
They refuse to sing because
they are broken, full
of tiny gaps and little pores.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
bleeds through pages, soaking
black and heavy into strings of wood
stretched to breaking, pressed too tight.
Others are scratched into open wounds,
dyeing blood reds magenta
as they crust into scars. Permanent.
Names painted in defiance
for the greater good. Thoughts
called into being by blues
and reds, and greens, and
halting greys as they spill
their living guts onto pages lines
with ink. Printers’ ink, that is—
different from all the other kinds.
Lighter, duller, marking things no one
should cross. Making boundaries.
Those inks are too cold to bleed,
too stiff and flat to stain a **** thing.
They refuse to sing because
they are broken, full
of tiny gaps and little pores.
