21 January 2019

Solomon's lament

look - it's not like this, or that, 
a moment when you short-breath burst 
after forever holding your air
it seeps out in sips, as if it's too hot 
your lips cracked earthenware, and anything dribbling down your chin
has nowhere to land because there is no cleft - here - just feathers 
floating from a ripped pillow
flung outside of a 3rd story window - and you happen to be passing;
this snowfall in late June doesn't bode well for someone -
he has already ghosted his shadow into a bar, 
where anyone's dreams smoke curl themselves and spit 
as a dancer stones herself against the brass pole, 
wonders when the last zebra will die - as she strips off 
yet another imprinted layer, 
leaving her breasts to shake a bit freer just for another 
tired song -
and a few coins tossed


# snippet stories 
December's Sacred + Profane Spontaneous Combustion: the word spell casting within these sheets is: in a progressive state of birthing + all written content is copyright ad infinitum – to this site, my alter writing egos + the muse.

About Me

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I keep company with words, the wolves and the forested wilderness.