blame – i washed your corpse with the sins of my sorrows.
white powder caked your feet, and the gravel of heart worms
ate at your pockets. i piled them in,
with the grapes of waves. flowing
iridescently in the showers of the undercut that shot like the sparrow onto the
yearly nightfall of our ghouls. why have
you blessed our caverns with the gropings of our hands. juxtapositions never seem to flail and yoller
like the cold tipped metal of a sterilized needle. or the golden bump, its crease coated in
mold, fill the atmosphere of a blue jay’s nail.
i ponder, i burden your weight with the scale of my injustice as goose
bumps and song tails flutter in the kale as the indiscriminate meadows undulate
in the tides of the groupings of elements, without their odd man out. my tears stream eyes. my cartilage melts into the cauldron of
disapproval as the witches brew and the bakers flatten. why cannot i just wrap your blanketed thighs
around my mouth and suffocate me in the night as rebirth expels me the next
eve. for the same beat plays through the
speakers into mine earlobes, hovering in fraudulent bachelorettes that shutter
and stutter at the grip of a vivacious grandmothers’ bone crackled thumb. babble, breathe it in – i scream. i tell ye, open thy eyes and understand the
greatness of our lord, bow down to its and their feet, kiss their heels, and
skin their hinds. boil their blood and
billow in the existential existence of their ambiguity and sheer
elusiveness. handle their governess with
grace and wash their corpses. add the
soap – tide to go is nice.
- J. A. Kind
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