the flesh of my forearm is a dead myth
a cold rhyme/an old rune/a new ruin;
its opened pores is poetry's worst nightmare...
quick
run tell
olodumare to assemble his finest forensics
team/scrubbed into my every gray follicle:
a puss of jet blackedness, fairy tales
for a stolen people segregated from the sun.
...
on forearm's skin - sweat has a soapbox;
this recombinant phantasmagoria/a disassembled
midnight in miscegenation with the tongue
concerning these stories of skin,
what 'should' was
is.
and my sweating tongue speaks volumes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment