My Love

And today against everything the dry well at the bottom of the heart
An incomplete deck of playing cards sleeps in the clenched jaws
Of a monk’s severed hand: I mean … . Oh well … . My Love … .
The bruise will stop by later as I walk in the real world but (again)
Into its deserts, its absurdities

 
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Last Supper

Raised from the smutty toaster of death … . At Five A.M., already drinking stale beer With Lucifer’s sunny switchblade at your throat While the neighbor with the bad cough Jumps rope at the humming edge of the world … . I should have... Continue →