This Planet Is a Grave

This planet is a grave.
The inveigled day a wrinkled band-aid
which, after a few bruised hours,

rubs off the wild strawberry patch
of your wound,
fading beneath the green
foam of the surf.

What’s there to realize, Milton? The surface
of Hell is a sizzling cunt and cold
to the brittle touch.

 
1
Kudos
 
1
Kudos

Now read this

Alm to the Beekeeper

Like Batman singing along to some gospel. But without the cape or Alfred, little Bruce sat down like a hero at the children’s table and poured some cold cereal and a tall glass of bourbon through a straw then began to iron a dead rose,... Continue →