There’s a scent
on the ledge
(funnel clouds suround)
like frost of death,
like frothing rapists
as they pry you open.
as they force it in.
Threaten hard
that you really want it.
Walk away,
leaving you lying in it.

(Back when I believed in God
I never closed my mind.)

There’s a word which represents you
that does not exist yet;
some kind of shifting metaphor
rising up out of the ground
like some newfound sinner
with intent like the stratosphere.

This need to please is a motherfucker,
I lost my mind in your notations,
strap me down to the guerney
to inject me
with clouds
so I ask no more questions.

(Back when I believed in light,
I asked for wings to fly.)

Hell from above,
you haunt the stars
set fire to doves,
locate the wound,
proclaimed it free
so I could never
pry myself from the melody.

Copyright 2014


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