A painting of myself looking at myself in a painting
A painting of myself looking at myself in a painting
Someone take these furry little spiders out from under my scalp/ they itch more than the winter-winding roads and poems that we thought we lost so long ago/ this is the best time to get outside/ lie down, lies down on the ground next to the corpse/ coarse overgrowth, underfed crops and dryrot on the porch/ norsemen legends, a tabernacle of confessions, hidden under the white linen of written/ and she hid the best fuck under a corset of freedom/ tits pushed tight against her upper chest/ like we’re all impressed/ embossed on the letters and letters that begged me to forget her along with the never happened/ stuck in the musty bar stink forcing myself to think suicide goblets, overpaid moms, grimey goblins who lost their lungs in moshpits coughing/ this is the most sticky stuff I’ve ever stepped in/ this is the closest she came to getting hit before she left him/ this is the furtherest we’ve walked from murder without a weapon/ this is the key in my stomach swallow, never let ‘em in
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment