MAUDLIN MAWS▪︎Poetry (3)

60. Poetry...would you be enought to save me ?

I limp not on one leg but the left trotter of my heart sagging with the deterrent load of love
Thence this velveteen glume of a swallow bristles;
Froth at the mouth, ailing_like a dying child, amorphous, ready to be embalmed in the fleece holt of his mother
I hurl myself_ a scrap of uselessness in the belly of heaven
Where you_ a heaped plain of skin awaits for my desertion
Cayenne on these bits of me I wanted to relay,
mouth mumbling like a disjointed caul too severed to speak the rotten deeds I did
comitting my turnips to your heaths
"Bestow your grievance upon me, open your grave of hands for the road-kill you've made of me"
My voice escapes me_
His neck turned from the aborted halfway plan we were
As the boneyard' dirt_ the one mewed from the remains of his gaze plaguing my memories
falls, hewing on what is left;
A trammeled, spare-of-a-woman thing
Her tusk rounded and removed from the shut jaw,
from her head; the matchbox beanfeast she tended to his love in
and it is infirm and wailing and esteeming to be asailed.

Me is but a tautened muzzle,
a stitched mouth sneering at your warp tailoring
To push, angle, pull your pointer pistol from the comely lesion you finely opened,
See overt the swelling injure damping your waters to the vertical drop of your essence you never let me dunk a foot in
Cleave me with that axe you call embrace
I want to feel my meat_ rousing, scater on your spread which you call bed
I want to be cherished, crimsoned by the unbridled methods you unclad me jarring ( for more )
Pomated and flattened asking the lampblack lineation robbing your face and silhouette to grant me a respice of air
An intermission to feel around the bugs bunking my body;
See if there is still enough to feed your hankering hate, your messed up love for tussle that begins mouth-to-mouth... settles blackblue evidence of the jackal's tufted ferity at the dark inglenook of your brow

You'd think that the resin-ink pitch of lines is intricate detailing to the gummed knot I am imparting
Porose, the lashes combing through the salts of the weeping flooding and without his wallet_ sitting, mocking me on my writing desk
These gasping verses and broken arbitrary rhymes are but teetery verbiage meshed by loss, the blood of a heart decelarating in the venetion of its holder to someone gone colder than a corpse,
_and soldered, soldered impulsivity that runs me to grab a shovel, make god cry as I salve myself on a hill pacified
Never to have a chest for his singed piece of scald to burden my soul again with
That is the verdict of my poem
My seranade booting out death ( what is a life without him ) by the door before I sought the thought for myself

...( After all I lived on the twelveth floor and the windows hadn't narrow bars ! )

25/8/2023