from the graves of midnight bone
grinding on bone,
the telephone rings
she says she can't talk now
she's about to orgasm, but she'll call back later
the edge of a seesaw,
determining the factious or lousy types through the weight of guilt.
what will become
of me from tonight?
shall i drink the blood
of the unreturnable?
or shall i savor it,
like the white chocolate
taste your tongue will not forget?
i am a mix of breeds,
twisting in the graveyard. of buried treasure,
hoping if i swallow enough and cover my body in its dirt,
i can be gold too.
it's always the ones who want
who never become.
that has become the stain glass
windows of worship halls
(the ones i pray to myself in)
and the sunlight
beacons it as scripture, as undeniable truths.
how can i let it?
she's pressing her crimson fingertips into the dialer,
phone at the ear,
lips parted in boredom.
the last number rolls through and she waits.
her bloody valentine answers
in his tall brooding voice.
"long time no see," she grins.
YOU ARE READING
yellow
Poetrymy bones are too big for my body and they protrude through my skin : let's talk about love, angst, fear, peace.
