Its time to turn into a ball,
fetal position, writhing lunatic,
the Moon could only wish to shine as dull
And mold ridden as I!
Its time to reach up and let love ride
the silken wrist blades that dine on flesh.
Its time to reach up and let the sky die!
In a burning molten mesh of fetal resistance and letch
the milk that purees the heart.
Boom! Tatter! Drag!
Like the wretch that lay it down.
Let the birds dine on divine intervention
-clock the time and buy it back-
train the dogs to lap the water
mud sunk and sad.
Its time to turn into a ball hit walls bounce back
Its time to dine on discontent romance and shiny shiny dimes.
Its time to take the wrist blades its time to take a bath
And here the clock goes: Boom! Tatter! Smash!
Its time to recoil, rejoice, remain.
Fetal position, fetal decay.
(Monday, January 14, 2013)