"underdose" poems
I mouth mother’s lullaby
to a skateboard.
my brother moans
into what he believes
was kept
from my sister.
we underdose
in a gutted place.
we take our foreheads
to women
like fevers
to god’s washcloth.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Four figure eights,
Only on the edge, never straight,
Slowly swimming into madness,
Calmly chaotic, never sedate.
Frantic fingers, fumbling for a fix,
For without it, we're ever anxious
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:48 AM UTC