a photograph of lemon-grass.
up to my neck in cyclone on a tangerine express.
all wheels have ears
more botox than I ever dare to comment through a kiss.
wooden limbs of architects
their stubborn minds of granite, muse and log
playing heroes planting fog
and chanting love-sick prose through a chinese eye.
meadowlark yarn to an incoherent bitch.
this is our city, proud and slender.
no death of nomad yet
has taken root in mojave dust
to lust for heaving breasts of higher rent;
am better now am new.
it was the cheerful stones that bored me half to death,
it was the friday when the nurse let go her moon
and moon'd her yellow backside
with my tonsils full of tin.
plug me in my darling. plug me in.
give me a dream.. smother me in gin
and watch the gangrene-mother rake me in.
I hear you only die on monday's.
it is monday now and still I smell your piss
as the sparrows drink from your thermos flask
and ask how is your heart? I read your book!
one week shy of twenty years? my god!
were you there when my mother raped me
and offered me salvation through a plum?
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 14th, 2024 09:50
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
Wow, you are hard to interpret I like, better now am new.
thank you for reading and commenting.
most kind.
Reminds me so much of Cormac McCarthy. I love it.
thank you Thomas.
I will go find Cormac and see what I find my friend.
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