your streetlamp reveals
nextdoor
the orange bloodswollen
dancers
with grunting
ears,
the moon’s wrinkled breast
sagging into
my wet
cheek; and
by the sidewalk
those tongue-tinctured
blooms
like
red
fingertips.
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"This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper." --T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."
I will cleave until the white ugly heart of your skull is barren and yet I shall love you to the uttermost days of my life.
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