Sweet twat

Driving me insane until I don’t remember even my own name,

Until the gods cry a river on our heads

Until I’m drowning in your filthy flower pattern bed

While there is no sad chicken on the wooden table,

only the pickles on the pizza

and the hand in the pocket

and the odd man playing golf in the snow with an orange ball

that you can’t see

as you can’t see the way I’m looking at you

It’s easier to believe that nothing matters

because everything does

from licking the salt lamp to riding on your back

it’s not trust it’s foolishness

You would turn a fruit absolutely nut

despite the shape of your smile

and the sharpness of your eyes

despite the goosebumps on my forearms

and the kiss on my nose

despite the poems you recite

the spoonbait, the gangbang and the catkin

And the dogs, they make you happy the dogs

Until they bite my ankle like you did

not with your teeth but,

with your tongue

with the words coming off your mouth

Misleading me as you would do with a child

like the five one you killed for me to be trapped

Until I break the spell you’ve cast on me


Votre commentaire

Entrez vos coordonnées ci-dessous ou cliquez sur une icône pour vous connecter:

Logo WordPress.com

Vous commentez à l’aide de votre compte WordPress.com. Déconnexion /  Changer )

Image Twitter

Vous commentez à l’aide de votre compte Twitter. Déconnexion /  Changer )

Photo Facebook

Vous commentez à l’aide de votre compte Facebook. Déconnexion /  Changer )

Connexion à %s