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.