i have no heart to speak of,
only a stone's worth
of what you consider
yours to be soft,
pouch-like
stumbling upon ovaries
and that, which
becomes an incubating
wound to your former
freedoms;
a heart that's a stone
that's simply thrown
into an abyss,
with, or without you to
catch it,
my heart isn't a crucifix,
it's the temptation
in the desert,
that it might turn
to bread, and feed you with
its softening,
for care, concern,
for those alienating things
bound to reveal
the semi-detached home of
2+ people...
my heart isn't a soft pouch
of kangaroo flesh...
and it isn't a bribe of reminding
you to abide by the umbra crux
set alight...
if my heart as stone
cannot be turned into bread...
to appropriate a life of
a worth of family...
what could ever reason people
to think that a wooden cup,
or a wooden object of torture,
turn into either marble or into
gold?
if his heart,
the carpenter's ore of wood,
managed to achieve the alchemic
secret of being turned into
marble and into gold...
how can my stone heart,
turn into flesh?
did he raise a family?
did he? did he?!
don't expect me to
climb down from my throne,
that's uluru....
this heart, once as mighty
and majestic as a mountain,
shrunk to a pebble,
and then into a grain of sand...
and?
each day seems eternal...
endless, uncomfortable
to make awake in the middle;
what's the most beautiful thing
about english summers?
esp. after a thunderstorm?
or there-lack-of?
summers are only worth
glorification and prayer-like
gesticulations in the lunacy
of gratifying the coolness of air...
summer's evenings;
oh, and that 79 pence cider
bought at aldi...
motherfucker tasted so good
i almost choked on my saliva
while walking... name?
orchard irish cider...
one word on this day where
i sweated out a marathon preparing
dinner: mercy.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
i have no heart to speak of,
only a stone's worth
of what you consider
yours to be soft,
pouch-like
stumbling upon ovaries
and that, which
becomes an incubating
wound to your former
freedoms;
a heart that's a stone
that's simply thrown
into an abyss,
with, or without you to
catch it,
my heart isn't a crucifix,
it's the temptation
in the desert,
that it might turn
to bread, and feed you with
its softening,
for care, concern,
for those alienating things
bound to reveal
the semi-detached home of
2+ people...
my heart isn't a soft pouch
of kangaroo flesh...
and it isn't a bribe of reminding
you to abide by the umbra crux
set alight...
if my heart as stone
cannot be turned into bread...
to appropriate a life of
a worth of family...
what could ever reason people
to think that a wooden cup,
or a wooden object of torture,
turn into either marble or into
gold?
if his heart,
the carpenter's ore of wood,
managed to achieve the alchemic
secret of being turned into
marble and into gold...
how can my stone heart,
turn into flesh?
did he raise a family?
did he? did he?!
don't expect me to
climb down from my throne,
that's uluru....
this heart, once as mighty
and majestic as a mountain,
shrunk to a pebble,
and then into a grain of sand...
and?
each day seems eternal...
endless, uncomfortable
to make awake in the middle;
what's the most beautiful thing
about english summers?
esp. after a thunderstorm?
or there-lack-of?
summers are only worth
glorification and prayer-like
gesticulations in the lunacy
of gratifying the coolness of air...
summer's evenings;
oh, and that 79 pence cider
bought at aldi...
motherfucker tasted so good
i almost choked on my saliva
while walking... name?
orchard irish cider...
one word on this day where
i sweated out a marathon preparing
dinner: mercy.