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October 7, 2017


You’re a dressmaker’s doll.
And I’m a clockwork bull.
Beautiful idols, both.
Forgotten in a toybox.
And you’re full of little pinpricks.
And I’m full of little cogs.
Itching, both.
Inside the skin.

Sing the circle.
Sang the scalpel.
What begins in Death.
Must end in naught.
And I’m Red in the places you taught me.
And I’m black in the places that bind.
Threads of sickened memory.
Sew the cloth of time.

Fluttering in a bloodshot eye.
The crowd are gathering round.
To stick their pins in the snorting beast.
The great wild bull is lying down.


From → Poetry

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