I was enjoying my tea.
Then you rasped my throat,
razor-blade-mint-leaves tongue.

My breath is fresh
like mold.

My bile, I'll be here for a while
growing hair under my nails.

Fermented emotions
pouring on my glass,
you're nauseously drunk,
there is no turning back.
Inebriation with my fingers
inside of your flesh,
anesthesia of sensations,
sweat perforates your chest.

You tear my humanity,
I tear your skin.

We grow ants infestations
as our home atop.
The circle must
never stop.

The Gold Miner

Heavy around my neck.
The gem turned into stone.

Coffin Memories

Now I often think about it.
When the taste of coffee
splashes bitter sharp grains
in my mouth
(how words amputate
my desires once seen
in a glimpse of innocence).

There is no room for innocence
underneath the armor.
There is no room for belief
on a 8X10 mindset.

It starts to make sense why
I am drinking rusty water,
and how I write "poetry"
on toilet paper, and when
my skills became paralytic.

Now that I often think about it
I revolutionized my own vocabulary:
my favorite prefixes are -a and -an:
amoral, anesthetic, apolitical, asocial.

Now that the feeling is so knotty
I wish choking became hanging.
Now that God stole my tears
there is only penitence past the doors.


Templates Novo Blogger 2008