You Think You Only Know Me, When You Turn On the Light...
If I think I’m Clever, Well,
I should know, I’m really saying nothing
At All.
Dreaming,
The Dead sleep in my Sleeves,
Whispering, They Point
How far to that Furniture polished, dyed brighter than blood,
Of far stretched Dream,
Of Rose, Easy on the stem.
Hoo?, I knew?
spoon?
the Wriggling through Wounds,
Of Air, Loose and Smutty.
Garish Shade of sometimes Lean, Battered Fruit of Fume and Harlot Queen,
Taste, For your manner is moist, your eyes Far to Jolly.
Motionless vague {Lifts} of a Hand
And steel fingers Drifting through Conflicted smoke.
Mere Glance, Of Flick,
Pink Thorn Ash And throat bound Tongue,
Your Head Collapses from imagined Sins.
And Yet such
Is my
Unseemliness.
-thend-
Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008
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