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Creek

July 22, 2017

onehundredandsixtyeight

It flies in the pupil.
It dies in the corner.
Wings of glass.
And wet, black lace.
In vivo.
Entombed.
Where once; a face.
It hides the ashes of ruin.
It drags itself to the water’s edge.
And bows down to the tide.

Drowned in bleach.
We emerge.
Toothless.
Dripping mother’s milk.
Pink as mucosa.
Stark as a cut.
But for grace.
And the sick abandon of a beating heart.
We might never lay down our heads.

Videotape.
Pig’s blood and naked remorse.
Baby powder smelling.
Strange blue Seraphim.
Stricken in the eye.
WIth weak lungs.
And strong stomachs.
Gods you can pick down from a shelf.
Everything.
In the end.
Is faded by the sun.

 

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From → Poetry

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