I yearn for a bride, adorned with inverted flesh.
Whimsy temptation to drive a pin in your bones,
and grow drunk on the savory marrow you horde.
An IV filled with distilled vacillation seed
infects your fluids, so thick with validation
until the tear ducts excrete my wallowing shit.
I force my umbilical cord into a slit
so we can engage in this shared deprecation,
while expressive exhaustion demands you concede.
Moan in a chorus to a desperate chord,
for now you lust after my noxious pheromones.
You've become my bride, adorned with inverted flesh.
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Author:
Bryen Kurdst (
Offline) - Published: August 29th, 2017 23:05
- Comment from author about the poem: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
Offline)
Comments2
A clever and horrid infrastructure, holding up a boiled, tortured heartfelt painting of impassioned struggle and authentic surrender.
This would make an excellent poem for Valentine's Day.
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