i made myself into sadness. branded with a butter knife
and dripping garlic on the iron carpet of my life.
its the soft shell of the bulb, the lopped off green sprout,
i don't know, you could call it: my filleted stench.
its purplish, the emotion. might be horse drawn
from the hayloft where i hide my love needle.
that stupid thing which stitched my pulse to yours.
i should water it down with bracken water, the purplish-
in a lilting sea of murmurs, or tsunami of catcalls
where i avoid saying things that i shouldn't say.
like: i want to fuck your brains out. i want to lick your feet,
your armpit, your baby bonnet…you know, that thing
you hide me under and go all gooey for.
mostly your wrinkling your nose at the shit you have left me in,
with my carcass of sad facts trailing behind that garlic fountain,
leave me to oblivion.
i don't want you (anymore),
i don't need this fucked up heart
and fucked up head,
i want you to leave. i want you gone,
i want you.
(still.)
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