It's Mad love in Honey land

It’s Mad-love in Honey-land

ain’t never met a man like that they tell me ain’t never met a man like that

collective dick-pics

these dark vignettes

The breathe that breaks through the conversation is stilted, and collapsed. A half-hearted communion, commune, union

There’s a handful of oranges in the bowl, one of them is moldy by now, and when I reach for one his hand grabs mine,  grappling, feverish and intent.  Seeking the fruit

He looks at me, but it’s not-me and not-him, like a pantomime reality, a phantasm,  a phantom pantoum, a haunted and garish poem that’s turned to ash long ago. 

There is nothing left to restore in the case of those deep betrayals. I cut the branches.

And they die.

There is not much else to say, except that each man will look into the mirror of his heart, alone.

It will be poison, or medicine, according to his works. 

As I am Her Chalice, I am Her Cauldron, and we cook the bad bones down. Like the bad metal-shit they feed to the people, we cook ‘em down, down, down.  

dark-spots, among honey-hearts

I don’t know why you bring me there, but there we be

In the landscape of the bad-bones, and burnt-beds, 6” shallow graves

ain’t never met a man like that they tell me ain’t never met a man like that

collective dick-pics

these dark vignettes

She is not kind

She is honest

collective dick-pics

these dark vignettes

What is within, will save you,

What is within, will save you

ain’t never met a man like that they tell me ain’t never met a man like that