a
thing of beauty must
be deployed
In our blue we have our grey
and these days, we have our nights
dastardly.
we aspirate cyanide to untie the blight of our last glut of sharp knives
you choose cruel lugers from your armory. you leave
your lead in me,
often.
we shoot from the hip or blast mad laughter in caverns of rotten.
I croak a **** of lungs you clot
and never do we charm a lot;
we’d rather our druthers be other words that ****
words that abandon blood troubles for ill will.
our love, hates still.

a thing of beauty must be deployed.

In our blue
we have our days. and that grey, is parched
no matter the threat
of rain.
we last and fade, grasping at straw suns
with moon fingers
as we may.