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
 
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Kudos

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Candide, or Optimism

The appetites of seven heroes splayed, dis- emboweled in a last, eighth fit of agony. Girls, crippled by wounds, spit blood upon the ground’s swell of arms, legs, and the breast-stained brains of dead villagers. Candide watched a monkey... Continue →