sprint the side street and the undercurrent of the story—
how you’ve been defeated, masterfully sewn to the sheer,
a bone thrown to the vegetables—
match the sound to the ear.
i am tattooed on the small of her back when she bends over,
attuned to her voice when she swears.
i found a gun in my waistband,
pointed it at your head and grinned.
look at all the rivulets. look at how red the carpet suddenly is.
if nonsense is brilliant, then brilliance is in commonplaceness.
my fingers are tracing the ends,
plugging the breaks in your skin and sending the cold everywhere.
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xo!
--
one half of ~ZombiesAteUs
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
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