the gigolos of my stomach,
and the indifference of salty summer
remind my limbs of saggy muscles and choked breaths of liars.
fallen faces of rotten society,
lisp-ed luck of unfortunates
are not far from fallen angels of satan, and carved tattoos on wooden skulls of women,
and if chipped nails like plucked butterflies, and bubblegum trashed bitter drinks like sour blood of toxic villains of a tedious world was a thing,
would you stomp on soiled flowers of youth and rebel against the science of the system for your art of 'humor'?
do i mind invasion?
or have i surrendered my perfection?
slumped shoulders at nights
weigh of scaled books of forbidden fucks,
throat aches at dawn
taste of unripened plums
it's the skin that feels foreign
sitting on a vessel i had known,
the muscles restrain
my blood,
the bones bind
my soul
how is my luck
for being born
on earth
and what karma is it
to be born
amidst the cursed.
if ever
and when never,
i rebel
...
