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

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REAPER

Out from beneath the red eye of some whirlwind’s squall Of (yes) dandelions and ballerinas, I found myself, yet again, Cracked bright by that religious instant If not needled out of the sunlight’s squint–spit quite Beyond the semblance... Continue →