by Brian Martin
- my organ systems are
singing the praises
of your hands.- two pilgrims of refined
calm and cool,- here the angels
have no wings.- they have been singed
and bruised with broken
hope and incarcerated
in the nightmares of
our flossy dreams.- here the angels
feed on marrow
and the broken hymens
of the asylum dames.- we will axe ourselves
to find the remains
of what we lost.
we will clean the
fossils and lay them
on display.- bleached skin and
inky hair
like baked goods
of times once
chewed and
shit out whisper
nicotine prayers into
our tiny ears- here the copulations are
meaningful and poetic.
HERE OUR ACTIONS ARE
BRUSH STROKES ON THE CANVAS!- this is the place
where your awful
scent brings me comfort
in our torn seams- and crushed pills
of something once lovely- and now helplessly
awake.
