firing line

 

 

firing line

 

blush-cheeked serpent
impossible salvation

razor tears,

beer-stained sheets

 

I can’t
fix the broken face
of your worn glory, the

unsubtle scars

and torn demeanor

howls and howls

like a silent stroke

of a midnight blade

bruises like choking
children

purple gulps unfed
floundering out of reach

 

dying

 

I want to touch you,
but I’m always drunk
you’re always fragile
I press my face to the glass
and prepare to see it all
evaporate

ambrosia left to rot and rat

since the fire is unquenchable
and the couch is so comfortable
and death is inevitable
it’s better not to care,

buy I'm incapable

I stand outside naked

and hope daylight

will eat me with the rest of

the shadows and ghosts

 

I can’t watch the bloodbath from

the cheap seats any-

more

 

I’d rather be a victim

than an accomplice

Author's Note

Day of the Dead sculpture by Bucur.

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

The downward descent of this nihilistic vision is all consuming... very powerful poetry.

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

Drowning in the meaningless existance of nothingness, past giving a damn or even trying. Ready to just sink and be done with it. That last line is brilliant.