there is a god
to sort through the phony confessions
flowers of masochism
at the end of every accusation
which flagellates
from your soul to mine
i cloister inside you
pure as a pardoner
i eat sacred grammars
from the language of parrots
until my truth becomes a circle
in the yawns of demons
heads drop through puddles
Mother Mary!
i see you are teeming with hell
usurping the wind with rain
which eats you well
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Popular Posts
-
the syndrome of a pendulum fashioned by a bad reputation. praying like an angel to a bomb urinated from a strangled star. love is pain. and ...
-
Fork Tongued in loops of wire he nods&nods&nods which was a pity since he should have shook with rage at ...
-
xxxxxxxxhis enraptured final hush and multiply itxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand ruin the fruit of his mother's laborxxxxxxxxxxx ...
-
I realized, reflecting back on my musings that I use the term "At any rate" an awful lot, often awkwardly and without reason. In...
-
What do you get when you cross a cross, with a spiral, with a 3d starfield? A gyre! (If my thoughts on the subject are to be believed) DOWNL...
No comments:
Post a Comment