Painted Bomb
This disassembled sketch
of your sickness dream: me
in crowbar regalia, your horsefly
regatta & the space between
our bones. We marauder our
worries on the paper, charcoal
& crucifix, grief crucible.
Call it a mural. Call it an illicit
marking on the back of our skulls,
a weeping lesion. A legion prepared
to devil our insides, trick our cartilage
to turn against itself. The wisest among
us know that paper dissolves in any hard
rain. We know that an echo is always
preceded by a noise, a hostage gurgle,
a troop of black statistics.
No comments:
Post a Comment