"torchless" poems
allow me to sting the tip of my tongue to lick
every drop of disappointment
each of these failures
let me drink,
if there only be a God
The god,
a wise one cruel and cunning.
forecast me into a fight grim
fatal and frightening,
wrestle the nails from my fingers,
lay before me the lamb to slaughter for the grin
of knowing:
I do not wake torchless
in the caverns of a beast
(rest, I am no coward)
in place, that I am one
shiv of cement grains more
ahead of the rotting moments
yet to come.
if not,
I pull the recorder
too far,
my humid chest
floods the sacred synapse
pansied blood and frantics
the light dwelling there
I did it idiot I do it to
myself, no else
let there be a light
**** a light
make it turnips, pounded eyeballs
give me
give give give give give
a dry well with a bottom
the color of dust.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC