The subject of Love dictates
the poetry of this age.
She flaunts and pouts,
which melted flesh hugs tightly.
Tap dances with Misery on your scorching shoulders.
We blame Passion for this masochism we share.
Instead of holding hands,
we entangle ribcages,
and let the hearts beneath
be dampened by another's blood.
And still we sing as blood massacres our words,
distorts their ugly faces,
and decorates them with flimsy hearts of gnawed flesh.
Love never becomes tired with Her popularity,
never ceases to be amused by the drama we
hang ornately on the tendons of our wrists.
The tug and pull of the hook stuck in unrelenting tissue.
We sit backseat to Passion's constant pressure,
twittling our big toes and playing tic-tac-fuck-me-over on our breast bones.
Our palates vibrating in our mouths so fast
our teeth chatter, loosen, shatter, crack,
and finally bounce down our gullets,
thrilled to be disposed.
While dumpsters replace our molars
(rotted by the sweetness of Love's taste).
They await discarded wishbones and vacancies.
Then we bloody our gums in our desire to let them go.
End: 12:20 pm
Sat. Sept 5, 09