French suicide

the blade in your mouth

cuts my tongue with iron

and saw dust

dry and wet

blood and wood

tire and blossoming

flames from the

barricade against

your love

blind though it is

it holds me brilliantly

against the surrounding life

of my night’s work

among the flowers

of dead acoustic jealousy.


By the time I have

opened your bud to the

swell of my lips

I feel no time

for it is about one’s soul

that should be glittered

and not forbidden

as some will

have it. To be

here in the ends of the starting line

makes for the words

to come less frequently

between puffs of air

I scowl at you

and wonder if you will

finish ahead of me

before they run

away again.



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