Poet - Filmmaker
When I leave heaven it will be the
Curve of your wrists that damns me
Breaking my fists into the ground
Bloodied posture cut upwards like driftwood
There isn’t much you could speak that would
The tasteful sound of stranger mouths are still in my ears.
Once I cum there’s no love in my words.
The full moon haunts my half breathes and
it’s nothing like you thought it would be
I’m having the tiredness in me erased
All the goodness will in time swell
Every grain that has held it’s tongue
Will caw out in a rage of ideas
My bristles will fashion a wig of teeth