It slithers in my gut
like lard
this wall of fat
behind my ribs,
burning beyond the epiglottis
pull on alcohol
as if it was sunshine,
life eternal.
A bloated centipede
hitched onto my skin
like buttered saddles,
freezing tears
before they roll onto clockwork triggers,
aiming for bone in a pubic forest...
@Steven Francis poems 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment