Sunday, April 05, 2015


A liquid diamond in the pierced forehead,
winking expensively at death.
The thousands running on bare feet across
public highways.  No purpose,
now that you've had your hour in my codpiece,
for you to stick around and watch me torch the country,
the mythology of time,
the lies that run frantic in flesh,
and the errors of silence.
You are my agony, that cannot cry,
the irritating poise of the moon.
A doorbell crying on a dinner table
where eyes and bellies roll, but no mind moves.
Find me in the groove of the wax table, I am an ant's navel,
cold gazing at the train that ran over what it gave in me.

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