aDarkerMind

I am a fetus in a goldfish bowl



I am a fetus in a goldfish bowl

father to a feathered dusters period pain

as the string of rage reels me in and joins in the serenade

as a rampant rabbit walks upon my guilt in secluded caves;

soldiers on a hike of thirteen miles

with landmine knives cutting through the bruises on my chin

chocking on loves whispers

as my premature sperm glistens and curtsys on its' meeting of precautionary skin;

naked for the threadbare summers raves

a cotton candy dancing on the stomachs of the brave

as a butchers breast drips its' silk onto the ribs of a swollen mothers rage;

the grand old duke of york

with his corckscrew fillets of a yellow cod in a sauce of currents red

gives head to the blue flamingo

as it ruffles its' feathers and limps in its' pretence of being dead;

where is the basil rathbone that once shaved my head and doused my skull with interior design?

alignment has no meaning

if a windchime spits his fathers heart before gagging on the sagging tits of time!

three o'clock and the sun has lost its' hat

prehistoric cats give chase to a mormen scholars unorthadox belief.

tape his tongue and cuff him before his forearms sinks his dream in a moonlight swim

and sling their poisoned arrows into the cesspit of religious origin;

I am a bakewell tart dressed as a hooker in a morphine dress

pay less and get very little

pay more and I will become the whore who will bleed your windows dry

and dance with your silver spoon between the echoes of your moon.

never underestimate the man who is not afraid to cry

I am a fetus in a goldfish bowl

learning how to fly;

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    'with landmine knives
    cutting through the bruises on my chin
    chocking on loves whispers
    as my premature sperm glistens and curtsys
    on its' meeting of precautionary skin;

    naked for the threadbare summers raves
    a cotton candy dancing on the stomachs of the brave
    as a butchers breast drips its' silk onto the ribs
    of a swollen mothers rage;'
    what a cruel society we've curated
    to warp such a talent, into a raving monstrosity
    clouded in accrued pain-addled, smog
    that so few get to appreciate
    its threadbare remnant of artistry,
    such a waste!
    and what a triumph
    for the innate nature of creativity
    that manages to outshine
    all this vitriol excess of hate..
    screaming to all: there's hope yet
    enough at least, to conquer - over
    such impotently bleak perceptions
    of our commonly shared, existence



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