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One Year Later…
Coping as
Your cotton mouth coughs
fill each whisper with a dank
echo,
Reverb off the tree with those
round seeds you tried to eat in a challenge to your gut,
to your God,
your innards reject,
your lungs ejeculating
red,
No cares, as the fruit trickles down throat,
drips on those lips
that grasped her attention
as you gasp at that need for vice
at that void by love…
Nauseating is the small talk consultation,
that worried whisper
of slight salvation
warmed by the stone cold clit
I mean, kiss,
of a Freudian slip,
of a hookers tit,
Those utterings
which tightly turn through
the cracks of a poorly stacked
building of marble and stone
to the ears of yours
of the only
sitting alone, stonely,
as that morning lingers in the ears
and in the nostrils,
between head and heart,
waiting and etching and yearning
for one more chance to dry those tears…
Getting the courage to sit up straight,
to strain the index would be to
admit defeat
to imagine what only the damned would eat
but no
better
way out
You feel the steel of a trigger.