Saturday, September 18, 2010


Pretty little images
don't reach the core
of sadness
breaking shattered glass
bitter calloused weeping
dregs gone down the drain
clogging arteries,
eating my memories,
etching out rotten stench
in my intestinal walls.
I would love to bleed for you.
Watch as the shattered glass
graffitis my windpipe,
excellent sprays of red
eye-popping splendour.
I would never want
to deny you the thrill.
My craggy dry old heart
laughs in anticipation.
Fresh wounds 
always look so fine.

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