I cut my thumb,
I licked the blade,
I sucked it up like lemonade.
Who’s kidding who?
My blood’s Mountain Dew.
I’m moving on,
I cut my thumb,
I licked the blade,
I sucked it up like lemonade.
Who’s kidding who?
My blood’s Mountain Dew.
I’m moving on,
This began as a poem, and I’ve since re-purposed it as song lyrics:
–
I can’t feel the very bones holding me together,
the wobbling skeletal gel
of congealed soul-juice.
Or
The cantankerous, sickly curvature of a face with
eyes that see too much, like a shibboleth
of the 21st Century dream.
The yellowed white sheets are made up
of burns and wounds, decomposing remains, disregarded
in the rising smoke.
Its plumes of retreat and remand.
–