written by my muse: j.vincent


love broken clean
with all it's amputations attached
fused and flaccid like my frame feels
some dead stump of some old memory
with the songs to sting the heart
full of the hard heat of hate
inside it all and alive... again.
just the same as we feel
when we put each other in the ground
lucky and ashamed to still be puffing along
even if powerless to prevent the potion
or it's preparations... from coming to pass
another dream for this awake hour
full of the intolerable repetitions required
all sirens, screams, and selfishness
snorting for our souls
shining out from some shellaced shell
and stinking with the worthless sorrow
we all have been sold...
as our new gold


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