Art Died Gasping For Air

Art Died Gasping For Air

 

 

 

 

 

Breathing throat’s softened, marred with blades’ razors replacing the honesty of nature

spitting faith into a jar built to hold the viscous little outcomes of the wicked, wistful labor

caught inside an act of love as it’s written before you exhale the words from your tongue

as if it was a sappy love note’s burning paper.

Tied With A Bow, Circumspect & Glistening

Something for nothing

Something for the repeat offenders

Something for the inspiration that comes out of ugly places like pearls from cracked oyster shells 

Something for the men that find gods in alleys and something for the gods that kill the men in alleys

Something to be said about wars and the men that fight the wars – the women that love the men that fight the wars –  the death of the men in the wars that is the death of all love and ultimately of the women that love the men that love the women and fight the wars without loving the wars 

Thus, something should be said for the homicide of all of this love, how quickly we dispense with our most precious things for the promise of the impossible antipathy that is the idea of honorable death 

Something for my dead grandmother’s orchid, alive for a decade without nary a pedal that has finally bloomed pink-white flowers once again

Something for fluttering hearts amidst the madness of unrequited love

Something for the mascara running down a woman’s face sucking down cheap champagne to kill the oppression of being alone

A great something for all the pain and even more for our ownership and our nurturing of our pain and our great reticence in allowing it to die, instead allowing it to maim and kill us 

 

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