I lick concrete, the rut

Of your inconceivable footprint.

We are ancient as the stars themselves,

We are weary of spinning gold into fire.

Winter is for shedding sentimentality.

I thread my cold fingers around his heart

He endures, he adores, he is a superstition

Imposed and dispossessed.

I write my poems in the dark,

Whomever the muse, it’s always my blood

Supplying the ink.

Predestine is the default

Of the uninspired.

I stroke my erections with

The knife’s scheming edge.

Life means courting the reaper

With an open-fist.

I twirl my hair into dirty alphabets.

Apprehension is the only faith I preach.

Greys blossom into purple and vermillion.

I am alive, in a manner of speaking,

But beyond the technical there is

Very little that I or anyone else can say.

My only chair faces the window.

I shuck paper dolls, shavings of soul

Mixed with December’s unending treads.

Is it true that we are born clean?

When I post I never know what publishing interface is going to appear. Why are there 3 different ones? This has nothing to do with my poem, it was simply curiosity. You may have noticed before but gender/sex means nothing in my poetry I could be a boy, a girl, or both.