The Poetry Of.
That place, just a myth, a thread into rope.
What restraint and fear among the broken
militia? Or the hollow of Helen's
bed that would swallow you up like Scylla?
Were the laden sounds of enemy boats
coasting military intelligence?
Didn't some God speak, fighting back his hair,
about a kidnapping avenged, or
the transient nature of human rights?
Years tamped into a dampened hole.
His deceits tracked by lack of white cells.
Fingerprints in a line-up on his brow,
an open case of the body. The full
concern embalmed with testimony.
Unable to face a jury of eyes.
His next skin shed, hung up to dry, sidelong,
a hoisting of hot silk. Prophylactic
vaporizing, a killer's assistant.
Valium relaxed, un-knocked-up.
The fetus of the wet-dream spent, purged
with penicillin. Dark scars rippling,
color like matches entirely burnt.
Day vacates, blood absorbed by cotton.
I am pretending myself without me.
This papery burning prickles with stars.
I spread my legs, all carapace. The grin
of a damp hole: cold mask, a criminal.
This site sponsered by