deepundergroundpoetry.com
Demented
Giving in to the falsetto. A scented scent of the
ambiguous vulva. Pinning the brooch with an open
chapter for the swine. Dripping the blood of wine
from the fuzzy navel. A sauce for the sadomasochist,
deboning the swan song of the widow's pale shell.
With the sweet tongue of the phallus's-hammer from
the archive's acapella screaming from loose leaves.
As the demented centipede turns pages looking over
the top of its Prince-Nez. Over the pines of the
widow's pillow as the semen of a piccolo whittles
insomnia's twisted tale. Etching an echo of a tattoo's
anxiety. "Return to me little Sheba," as I die a
thousand shriekings of the moon's gibbons
castrating on a sea of silent voices. Hemorrhaging
the twilight over a maddening dichotomy. "What do
I have to do to make you cut me?"
ambiguous vulva. Pinning the brooch with an open
chapter for the swine. Dripping the blood of wine
from the fuzzy navel. A sauce for the sadomasochist,
deboning the swan song of the widow's pale shell.
With the sweet tongue of the phallus's-hammer from
the archive's acapella screaming from loose leaves.
As the demented centipede turns pages looking over
the top of its Prince-Nez. Over the pines of the
widow's pillow as the semen of a piccolo whittles
insomnia's twisted tale. Etching an echo of a tattoo's
anxiety. "Return to me little Sheba," as I die a
thousand shriekings of the moon's gibbons
castrating on a sea of silent voices. Hemorrhaging
the twilight over a maddening dichotomy. "What do
I have to do to make you cut me?"
Published 23rd Aug 2023
| Edited 24th Aug 2023
Author's Note
It ain't for the choiring angels.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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