Brushfire Across the Constellation
I was a hoop skirted nova
dressed as a ballad full of bombs.
You were a statue made from a thousand
blowtorch kisses. This is all written
on the skin of the gagging hunchback
we call friend. This hotel room is a flag
planted in a body bag. We’ve made
a pair of thrones from the remnants of pistol
& bone. We don’t require the trappings
of our office. Only a trap.
No comments:
Post a Comment