Your tone’s a knife — carving ink-blot syllables,
rust-and-oil-despicable, you’re hurling gazes
laced with deep contempt, with thistle words
and soot I’m suffocated, I am a stranded fish.
We pick in wiltedness the thorns of grave-
yard roses sick with Blake’s disease, a worm
of midnight fingertips, pressed darkly against
our temples, we are burning bridges tenderly.
Thunderhead emotions, seaside seaweed-rot
as silence finger-paints the hidden sky
where starving constellations cannot show the way
we feed the kilns; a pyre for what’s past.
Linked to Magpie Tales