I lost my head still-drunk on saline, joining
my words like a son-of-a-bitch—He knows
I'm a sore loser, pegging my words still-thrown
in a ditch—I burn-my bible pages out of spite
you know (whiskey not to blame)—O' lord
of bile, fire-and-horror (I didn't catch the name)—
beads-of-sweat reflecting blood, but still I don't
see red—I'm a sore loser (losing) still licking
off the thread—gun-in-my-mouth and it's
not my metal (fingers, spit, grime)—anthologies
of poetry (I'll never read) next to the train—(anyone
know the time?)
I haven't lived-my (life) under
seashells, or become one-with-the-storm—I still
have never touched saline spray, or killed over
(two of) thorns—sand shooting up my-nose
like (medicine), I hardly feel a thing—trigger-happy
books of men, reminiscing about—(spring?)
Asking of antique people, sewn with (neurons,
stars):
I must ask you don't read my-eyes, and before
you call me a bitch, help me find my bed—
resting now, dead as fish, I think I've lost my
(head)
-
Author:
J.D (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 29th, 2023 01:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments2
Possibly.
Possibly, what?
one for the archives here.
superb.
many thanks
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