THE CANNIBALISM OF INNOCENCE
At the vintage of my madness, every morning a king dresses and undresses in the image of my father.
-Which smile spreads across such a vile face?
Who can touch the whorish darkness on my lip?
My wakefulness distills shrapnel pieces into my inflamed abdominal cavity.
The parenthesis of something in my cannibalism: “Women Who Run with the Wolves.”
My tongue and palate are in pain, a glass of martini under the full moon.
Old dynamites and rat eyes in my limbs…
An old circus traveler plays me with strings on my arms.
The god of lust living in my groin crushes all theories.
I am a hunter now on my mother’s knees.
Last night, I drowned my childhood in the river of innocence
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