"erasure" poems
I'm a lot gayer than originally planned.
******* Gay.
But I'm worried about the concept;
not sure if it's right to use the word
“gay”
when (I'm sorry I said it)
I'm really bisexual,
just particularly into women right now.
Like,
is that bad representation
of my sexuality?
Only encouraging
bi-erasure?
It just doesn't have the same
“umph”
to say
I'm feeling particularly
bisexual today.
But I've been telling myself
over and over
that it's okay,
no matter what
I'm feeling today.
I don't
need
your
box
anymore.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
distended the pearls are red and uncovered
upon my mistakes. erasure taunts.
something stirs unbidden strangely
familiarity dissolves in tears
suddenly distant the sun streaks
through the black waves
nothing works anymore
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
02.01.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.
It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.
It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.
Pure and imperfect.
Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.
And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.
The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.
I am no longer afraid.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
Substantial quadrants of hate
Throughout these veins circulate
Spiraling in frenzied states
Adrift an ailing coma
Infinite corruption clawed my corneas
Birthing the erasure of euphoria
Imprinting trademarks of memoria
Leaving in wake vile aromas
All confidence dissolved to solvents
Due to definitive involvement
Susceptible to gaunt installments
Marring my skin with melanoma
Mother Earth serves as a mime
Humanity must be refined
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
The dictionary was our savior.
We turned to it when straits were dire.
It gave mystical advice.
It absolved responsibility.
Well this time
This time
It told me to jump into the abyss
Disappear into the ether
And tempting as that is
A release
An erasure
A finality
Tempting tempting tempting
I know how much it would mean to you
So I resolve
To only visit temporarily
To make my escape brief
- And return all the more brighter
Refreshed and gleaming
Restrained only by human form
Oh severe mother of mine!
To pin me to this physical form!
And merciful father!
To birth me unto being!
One day I will transcend
But for now
A brief escape will have to do.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Custody,
first a checkerboard of red and white squares
trapped between thick black bars.
Days of the week,
prisons,
and I was wrongly convicted.
My fingers reach for help through my metal cage,
yet only receive paper cuts
on the corners of divorce letters.
Letters drowned in blood bleed off the page
and stain my Saturdays and Sundays.
Custody,
now neatly separated into red and white columns,
walls dividing weeks and weekends.
National borders barricade one house from the other.
Two countries clash in a
war waged with
two atomic blasts burning
my culture into ash
white as paper.
Custody,
the absence of red and
the erasure of my father
from the calendar taped to
my mother’s refrigerator,
and I’m frozen in place.
Custody,
a vast snow-white plane:
One step forward,
nothing in my future.
One step backward,
blizzards in my past.
Custody,
ground made of paper so thin,
with every step,
life crumples under my feet.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
Cities aren't cities,
The people are the cities,
she'd say, and I didn't understand
what she meant until I realised
That Hauz Khas was our first stroll ever,
Khan Market- our best cup of coffee,
Humayun Tomb- our first stolen kiss,
Dilli Haat- our first quarrel,
The Lodhi Gardens- our biggest quarrel!
The Jama Masjid was where we'd always make up.
Now I know which market sells her favourite
bags, which gully keeps the anklets
she loves most, which discrete stall in the
by-lanes of Old Delhi is her best chaat-wallah ever,
Every nook, I know by the fragrance of her memory,
I try forget, I try erase,
But oh, I remember,
For she is my Delhi
Delhi is her, only her,
The city of first love, first dreams,
a million rights, a devastating wrong,
The city that now stings with the thorns
That make my feet bleed when I try to enter,
Even with my back turned,
The city hurls
Stones at my fragile heart and screams at me
to never return.
I'll never return.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
I have a vision
Of a future
Bright, joyous,
And the contrast of sorrow
Children skipping, giggling
Darkness and light
Musical notes drifting through
Dramatized passion, hilarity
Nature surrounding
Encapsulated in cobweb of love and support
Unfortuna-mentally
I am at once terrified of settling
- being tied down
Losing independence, individuality
Missing dreams
- at once terrified
And at once yearning
With all of me
For a family
For a dream of forever
To settle and begin such a masterpiece
To commit to
And be certain of
The depth there in
Something more important than me or mine
To dedicate self
Surrender
Sacrifice for
And again such a venture requires a partner
Who shares the dream
Enriches the dream
Supports the dream.
Contradictions, aren't we all?
Or am I just yearning for the erasure of self
Through divine love?
Aah~ maternal instincts!
Life of mine,
Live out the step you're in
Young one
Before you yearn and plan for the next!
So fresh and yet to begin
- Society's great work machine awaits
And the experience of other lands!
Life of mine,
Live the experience of now
Fully
Grow all the more for it
Feel each pain and joy
Clarify mind
Build strength of self
Claim a sense of identity
See where it takes you...
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Wash
*Away the memories of how
We tangled together
Like the perfect sailor’s knot
An organized intricacy
Coalescing my jumpy nerves
With your easy laughter*
Rinse
*The weight of your fingers
Imprinted on my scalp
A heartbreaking muscle memory
Fingers that once ran through my hair
Run to another’s touch*
Repeat
*This sadistic cycle of erasure
Hoping one day forgetting
Won’t be a conscious thought
That shower shall set me free.*
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
I wish I could tell you
Tell you all my secrets
So I wouldn't have to face them alone
I have anxiety
Which seems to be an overused term
By people who will never understand the feeling
Of never wanting to wake up
Where reality is too much
I'm asexual
Meaning a lack of ****** attraction
Easy right?
No. Nothing can be that easy to understand
Some of my friends have left me
My family doesn't seem to understand
How I can be asexual and have a girlfriend
My mom wouldn't let me get pride shirts
She allowed me a hair bow with my pride colors
Because it's subtle and maybe no one will notice
I have an eating disorder
Binge-Eating Disorder to be exact
My mom says I'm chubby
My doctor says I'm approaching overweight status
My friends are concerned
For they know how long I can go without food
They know how much I can eat
It's not by choice
I wish I was skinnier
I wish I could control myself
I wish I had control
I talk to myself
Like a whisper
I shut out my surroundings
To listen to the voices in my head
And this can lead to two things
Resolution or Destruction
For my mind has no middle ground
Struggling to resolve a situation
That I've poured over with gasoline
And the voices have lit the match
One false move
And the voices will win
I'm too smart for my own good
But not academically
I use animals to imprint scars upon my skin
I ride my scooter too fast down a hill
So my knee slides across the pavement
Ripping out flesh
A permanent reminder
That 1200 pound horse that stepped on my foot?
Not an accident.
When I sprained both my ankles at the same time?
Not an accident.
I have a gender that I can't identify
I feel mostly feminine
But some days I just want to be able to relax
In baggy sweatpants
With a muscle shirt
And short hair
Yet I know that if I cut my hair
I will regret it the next day
For my gender never seems to stay masculine for long
I had a journal
One that I would write in since 5th grade
It wasn't a diary
But it knew exactly how I felt
And when the bullying became worse
Turning from verbal to emotional
Emotional to physical
My journal suffered the waves of my tears
The fissures of the ripped pages
The erasure shavings left on every page
Until I burned it
Lit it on fire
Erasing any trace of who I am
So who am I you ask?
My secrets lie within this poem
So don't lose it
For this,
This is my last journal
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Thoughts of you rain down with the falling sky
Onto my skin, it soaks it in
Thoughts of you take the shape of water
Then transform into paper boats
And drown in our conversations
My memory becomes subject to erasure
You extract poetry from forgotten moments
Thoughts of you hold my hand when I’m lost
And mold into a compass when I’m in need
of remembering something that was good for me
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 4:21 AM UTC
Into a bow, I folded
paper wakame
and ate it.
Intentionally.
Compulsive behaviors include :
Ingredients such as :
relativity ,
perspective
taught me how to turn
something flat
three-dimensional
and visa-versa.
The Unfamilliar, not-yet-integrated
uncertain if it could be capitalized on,
forms of existing
somehow gathered shame
exposure
sexuality
erasure
childhood memory
determination
in tasting.
I would like my appetite back
when you are finished evaluating
Above the water horizon,
where none of us can see,
everything is different.
:
I can't believe I keep forgetting.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
Immortalized with the mark of Sloan
He thrives amongst forgotten gravestones
To restore their legacy is why he intrudes
For systemic erasure he believes society must atone
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
Empathy drives this misguided untomb
Generations of oppressors he seeks to dethrone
Reality remains an unfamiliar interlude
For to delusion The Wanderer is prone
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
All alone with no place to call home
A hero called The Wanderer roams
Complacent in his intrepid pursuit
Unfaltering ‘till the world sees glory of Arawn
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
*Start 1
with bright light
imagining
unconfined
no inner or outer
a wish arises
for something other
any crumb will do..
with the finding
of that crumb
a jolt startles
from a slumber..
Start 2
with lowly crumb
imagining
containment
outer no inner
a wish arises
for boundary erasure
a merging with
bright light..
with the finding
a jolt startles
from a slumber..
breathwork: 12121212...*
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Yeah, I guess you could say that. I seem to be past the hex. I have a job again, one I like. I'm teaching. But I can't help but hear that song from Wizard of Oz play over and over in my head. No. Ha ha. I wish it were that one. No, it's the one that kicks up as they leave the poppy field. "You're outta the woods, you're outta the woods." That song is so hopeful yet undercut by something looming, inevitable, a bigger fall to come.
Sure, I still think of her.
But what I was getting at earlier is that I feel like I'm at this point in my life, this middleplace, where the abstraction of love, the mysticism of the body, all of that ****** fog seems to be clearing. The people around me are plucked white, devoid of any raw, genuine sentiment. They view the body in a way so clinical. I only hear of its limitations or its capacity to bear children.
Peter Pan Syndrome? Maybe. But if the body is reduced to its most rudimentary boundaries and functions and not treated as an instrument of erasure or alchemy, then what's the point?
Yes, she and I talked about kids, but that was always so far away. At this point, I don't know that I want them. Her? That's hard to say. I'll concede that the happiest moments of my life involve her. But, and I see the irony here, on some fundamental, unsexy level, we enabled poor behaviors, addictions. We both suffered from depression and didn't know how to dig each other out.
I never see her in a negative light though. You look surprised. I don't. There she is and there are all other women. She's fifty feet tall in my mind. A femme titan. Whipsmart, funny, kind.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
?
this dawn was a
laughing she
s
p
i
ll
in
-
g
staccato chromatic cacophony on
blind tissue
(erasure of inky displacement
speaks of erroneous discrimination)
happy her make crimson vibrations
casting off her melancholic i
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
I lay one night under a wan lamp-light
Thinking of the pursuit of absolutes.
I couldn’t find the needed time
To analyze what I wanted to.
So - This thinking slowly turned to dreaming
And later these few things I did recount,
- A vacant view of wasting progress,
A reversal of streams to their fount.
A deconstruction of action, some cosmic reduction,
Some flight of things that mattered.
The inexorable picking of lock-step existing-
Dreamfields broken. Syntax battered.
Then this slowing movement rose
To some crest in my mocking mind;
And in horror, I met the morrow
with new respect for the conceptually refined-
For the march of progress, the passion in potential,
The power of merely thinking!
For in our discourses of absolute forces
What could be worse than the erasure of meaning?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
It is usually best to avoid
crushing hopelessness, to swerve
and defer disaster, but even so
the world is well and truly ****** up.
Seek solutions to this conundrum.
Try to avoid curiosity, a pernicious
strain of insanity that conjures up
irrational fears of orangutangs
with meat cleavers, lethally ascetic
Tibetan monks, bathroom carpets
of abandoned razors or Big Macs
rife with E. Coli.
Avoid metaphysical musings that lead
to questions of coleslaw, vegan
water parks, the Team Quadraplegic
Gymnastics squad and the horrors
of the Hilary Clinton Naked Network.
Seek refuge in the present tense to
escape the interrogation of mirrors,
the crafted answer, dacryphilia,
remedial rage, landslides of therapy
and memorizing each month's horoscope.
Consider that mercy is on back order from God.
Remember the best lines of an unread book.
Nap on a battlefield; haggle over imaginary debts.
Set fire to the umbrellas of passing strangers.
Stop to watch the loudness and burn the recovered dead.
Call up new magic for a dying world.
Find beauty in the irradiated glow of burning cities.
Try not to bounce existential checks or notice
the crumbling of distant walls, ruined outhouses,
and the immense bleakness of forever and ever.
Take up training small rodents and lighting holy fires.
Ignore the broken stars, long dead and beyond grief.
Discover the pleasure in erasure, enjoy the biology
of strangeness. Walk many miles without a map
beneath innumerable ladders carefully detouring
around immense flocks of rabid cassowaries.
Throttle the recalcitrant blue sky's silent throat.
Listen to the melody of car wrecks and smashed guitars.
Abandon assumed corpses to dreams of endless cold.
Appreciate futures you cannot believe in but never visit them.
Learn to diagram sentences in Esperanto then speak with toads.
Ignore the slot machine odds against your deepest desires.
Hide beneath the ravenous trees from time's famished maw.
Seek sanctuary in toothy optimism and complete amnesia.
Follow these impossible instructions to the letter
and you will become non-valent, invisible, immune
and no longer notice the world is ****** up
beyond redemption. Go on, give it a try.
~mce
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
#(for the Woman, and the Cowards who Fear Her)
*she was never too much—
only too alive
for those who mistook control
for strength
and silence for peace.
her becoming was not a performance.
it was a war—
and the ones who claimed to love her
dropped their weapons
only to place their hands
around her throat
in the name of order.
they called her chaotic,
but it was their cowardice
that feared the shape she would take
if left untouched
by their grip.
they chose the seductress,
the one who dances at the edge
of her own erasure—
pliant, priestess of their small gods,
goddess of their easy pleasure.
but the true woman is not
a priestess of men;*
she is a temple unto herself.
*and to know her,
to truly see her,
requires the man to suffer.
to suffer her beauty
without owning it.
to suffer her fire
without extinguishing it.
to suffer the rise of a soul
that will not yield
to his fear of being seen as less.
he must descend
into the fragmentation
that makes him reach for control—
and there,
only there,
may he begin to rise.
and she?
she is not waiting anymore.
she was always the fire.
and the fire needs nothing
but its own spark
to blaze.*
#
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 7:00 AM UTC
In Room 204 of the Lancaster Motel,
I ease myself into the bath.
Music plays. It's the kind
of pan flute and finger-picked
guitar tune you hear over fuzzed out speakers
in grocery stores. I don't know the source.
The place smells of mildew
and cheap coffee and self pleasure
and Febreeze. I'm tired.
More tired than I've ever been, I think.
Do I still have a job? Until I call in to check, I suppose.
And I suppose this pocket knife will have to do.
I never seem to have a corkscrew on hand when
my mood calls for wine. I stab and jimmy the cork
until I can pry it loose with my teeth. A few
bits of cork float on the surface of the wine.
This does not stop me, nor slow me.
Pollyanna and I stayed in 206,
a detail that calls attention to itself, a detail that
longs for a poetic phrase,
yet I feel little other than the
dull thud of coincidence.
I remember asking her
before that first time if
she thought of *** as
a form or erasure or
addition. She said
both sounded nice.
And something
in the way she said nice,
led me to believe
she landed on an unspoken
third option. I no
longer had an appetite for *** that evening,
but we acted on it to satisfy expectation.
She turned down the air conditioner,
and we laid there shivering and saying little.
She told me not to leave her.
I said I wouldn't.
I'm in the tub now and the bottle is almost empty
and all of this is so selfish and stupid
and I'm just doing it for the sake of habit
and sad sack poetry and ultimately
an "I-Eat-Pussy" consolation fedora in heaven. And I'm
self aware but the trajectory spirals against my will.
And my life entire burns a little slapstick,
so I get outside of myself--watch, enjoy.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
pebbles
over the eyes
beautiful vacancies
and folded hands
our true home
land of inanimate flesh
gray skin
in sunken grave beds
and operas
theater of mice
while tumbled hair still grows
we are already dead
waiting for the flaming barge necropolis; to
shuttle seas raven
vanishing point
age; a slow erasure
the mind still wreathed into the torrents of life
morals transmute into desires lost
every inhalation
a going going gone
the only savage kisses;
crypt tongues slow unwinding
allusions of a destiny abandoned
forgotten
from niggling chatter
and the price of a chicken
bathing in a tide pool abyss
of inked black teas
i hold fast
losing steps
a worn animal, waiting
till sanctuary comes
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC