Bare the Bored

Smoking the last days
of weeks, I create a plug for my seams. Together
we shall visit my grave. Quiet is ordered slightly
shy of clicks, surpassing edges is my fence seat.
You right and left just spread out, find the gold
on a moon lit eve, it was Steve who told his crime
and it is horrible to remember it indeed.

The ducks quack and broken twigs under foot
alert the water of the women to insanity.
The murderer is killing me.

Though if I killed myself I would never decide
how to spread my ashes on the murders eyes.
I season my potato like it is a testicle ready
to be clasped by the promise of no children.


Author: leeethomas

Visual Artist, musician and writer from Australia. Interested in Love and the Mind.

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