markbousfield

Today,
I wished upon a scar,
a map of experience
so defined in His binds,
an opiate,
vulgarity hanging like a loose wreath
around my feet,
covered in sacred cloth my skin is cold.
Alone in the street,
the only thought keeping me warm
is that maybe sometimes rape
is not so different to peaceful sleep.

And the first spoke second,
"On any road to the Lebanon,
'ere anon, the bray come forth
lest it be told I were a drowned sailor
and a blonde to boot."
So the second said first,
"Which hark I under the eye of milk?
To the greying fur of the Spring morn
mourning the loss of gain?"
In this cavernous response Silence said,
"To weight the force of the blow against her dimple,
would the protection of books dance inside the hareem?"
"It is verily the nesting into the bosom of a sweet cat that
I decree the time to polish a singular rose in thanks (takk),
in enough and plenty."