Every afternoon, for twelve minutes
they open your door.
Perhaps, in
the bass-less talk of the lounge set,
all do speak to you- being
the chosen
crucified on a mattress,
the grit of a cement floor
scattering your sweat
like broken veins, to
the drain youd rather pee in
than pass pinching, knocking for the guards.
I dreamt you were a spider leg
dancing to death, pinned &
straitening like a snake in a bag,
the nurses huddled, mindless to the spider
folding in a crevice seven legs wide.














Comments
--
There's always a better poem just out of reach.
Words create situations [link]
The roots of the future run deep [link]
the drain youd rather pee in
than pass pinching, knocking for the guards."/
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If God isn't dead, then I'll kill him myself.
--
kindness is still hip.
--
kindness is still hip.
--
kindness is still hip.
--
There's always a better poem just out of reach.
Words create situations [link]
The roots of the future run deep [link]
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