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June 23, 2013


I held a flower in my hand.
And it was so very, very perfect.
That I could not stand the sight of it.
The ugly artistry of the Vitruvian Man.
So I crushed it into ash.
And tossed it in my drink.
But the wine tasted like your lips.
And now I couldn’t abide.
The hunger of the vampire tide.
C’est la vie, beauty, you know how hard I take it.
How hard I make it for myself.
The flowers in your hair.
I couldn’t fake the razor smile.
The sanguine kiss that missed your lips.
And left its scar, right there.
The place my eyes forever fall.
The place my eyes don’t dare to tread.
Left lounging in this kishka.
Drunk, dry and restless.
Listless, haunted and choked by infarction.

Hummingbird, raindrop, sister of mine.
I drink your blood when I drink my wine.
And the glass is always half full.
Like ivy on the oak.
Like vein on the muscle.
Leads to all the old familiar places.
Spaces between Hell and your hand.
So I touch you where I know you can’t stand it.
The place only I know it hurts.
Which is what makes it so much worse.

He’s a man of simple pleasures.
And I’ll concede, he is a man.
But hearts bleed only for Angels.
And he can’t hurt you like I can.


From → Poetry

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