I don’t know what to make of this. The half-naked Russian model rupturing in the tub, one hand rubbing salt from her habit of weakness, another clutched a swill of wine. Her pill-loaded lover, always blurring. Both too young to bear the death poem of lullabies. In another room, in another town, a redhead stranger sits soaking next to me, governing my drunk body back to senses with her mouth. Outside, a gaggle of youths perch the water’s edge, lapping beer from a spillage of shadows. Soon, they’ll beat their wings madly and rush the night air, running on nothing but *** ***** and lace. Giddy and octane. I won’t know what to do with it or make of it, still, years later in life… an even more ragged crackpot, taking potshots at poems.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 8:43 AM UTC
I don’t know what to make of this. The half-naked Russian model rupturing in the tub, one hand rubbing salt from her habit of weakness, another clutched a swill of wine. Her pill-loaded lover, always blurring. Both too young to bear the death poem of lullabies. In another room, in another town, a redhead stranger sits soaking next to me, governing my drunk body back to senses with her mouth. Outside, a gaggle of youths perch the water’s edge, lapping beer from a spillage of shadows. Soon, they’ll beat their wings madly and rush the night air, running on nothing but *** ***** and lace. Giddy and octane. I won’t know what to do with it or make of it, still, years later in life… an even more ragged crackpot, taking potshots at poems.
Request permission to use this poem