We are still under the sky, In the guest room; Beast and cryptic. Everything crawls. A car flings us. I see one peeling The middle east. Down there, it’s still Exotic; an open sore, With a mule-cart Full of gold.
You exist in the poor length of my second toe, our lip and Irish eye that pinks upon the island air. I’m bored cleaning corpse from empirical floor. I pack jaws that don’t speak, at doors to centuries. Sing – give us wars that ring in your elbow, sting of injury, and porous […]