a smoke ring circles the sun
beneath we burn
beneath we burn
my loving
friend
hands me
ripe figs
torn open
flesh the colour
of
my broken
sex
crawled into
bed
head cradled
in a lightless
corner
of night
Surely we are all mad people, and they "whom we think are, are not" The Revengers Tragedy
I want this to read
ReplyDeletea smoke ring circles the sun
beneath we burn
but it just wont do it for some mysterious blogger reason