The Grande Dementia

The Grande Dementia

 

 

 

 

 

the air I breathe, smoke,
my tongue unspent ash from a cigarette,
a broken fingered dance on a page,
like knives that nick instead of stab,
and guns that jam,
a trigger on my finger commiserating.

the holey craters behind my eyes,
my own doors to nowhere,
where the only rule is: “do not survive”,
biding my time that isn’t my time,
waiting for a flock of starving crows,
to carry my mutterings into the sky.

i have a flower growing out of my brain,
a beautiful red rose made all out of pain,
that blooms like buried doves,
and inside of every screwdriven divot is one unrequited love,
pretending i’m crippled, with a notarized contract that reads,
“you are not to be forgiven.”

my whole soul tainted red,
with pity in my chest for the psychopath that lives in my basement,
a small gesture of goodwill for all the craven and wicked,
burning good witches,
down in the valley’s unguarded prison chapel’s kitchen.

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