the old crone’s dome boiled
skull scalding, full of trouble and toil
oily face, razorburn neck
my eyes the type to scan
salamander like
darting here to there
wondering where to next
where to next?
I tire of the comfort in
mom’s crockpot, I'm hungry
for another bite of syringes
in the soil
slippery like a leech, i suck
blood because its richer than what
I'm loyal to
needlepoints outnumber the steps
I cant walk a mile in these shoes
another affair with the fairy dust
apothecary that swindles all
all i have left is the
nothing that i have to lose
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