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Beaten Fruit Of Flapping Surrender
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
Not one rusted nail escapes your fury.
I proclaim my freedom, my salvation.
Hands sweating in anticipation
of
sweet liberty..sweet liberty.
Bodies sweet with the
fragrance of
perfume.
Moist oil worked
like
the wind
into
dry skin.
Broken dishes.
Splattered skin.
Blood.
Lots of blood.
Flashes of pain
refrained
in cubicles
of plastic
burning
smoke.
I'll choke on
the
eaten flesh
I have been
asked to
consume.
Resume the fury.
Let the sap hiss
like
dangerous liaisons.
I raise my hands in
silence of
rejection.
Flickering lights.
Put them out.
Don't look at me.
I am decaying.
Green wood crackling
in yellow fire,
and somehow
every
needle
is injected
with my soul.
Under the curving
lattice I
will
exist.
Shredded.
Imbedded
with the beaten fruit
of
flapping
surrender.
