43 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
Executable File
43 lines
1.1 KiB
Plaintext
Executable File
Chow Locales
|
|
2023-03-02
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
Last night to myself I thought
|
|
in midst of writing drought
|
|
while laying myself down in bed,
|
|
"When will I ever feel better again?"
|
|
|
|
Swinging on the crests of zig-zag Sowelo,
|
|
landing on all fours as low
|
|
as they'll go,
|
|
close to the ground.
|
|
I wake up at midnight in a sweat.
|
|
"Just a dream; no need to fret."
|
|
Crawled out of bed
|
|
on dog hair-frosted floor
|
|
with thrashing hunger too loud to ignore.
|
|
My brain'd make me eat an entire damn pizza
|
|
if I weren't too much of a coward
|
|
to operate the oven at this ungodly hour,
|
|
and even then, when all's said'n'done
|
|
and I've been abandoned by feral fervor,
|
|
my stomach would probably either vomit all out or rupture.
|
|
|
|
Lover takes in her hands my jaw,
|
|
peels back my lips to see my fangs long.
|
|
My fingers around her wrists, trembles.
|
|
Pinpricks of pupils. Fear of going feral.
|
|
"Desperate devouring is a fashion you wear well."
|
|
|
|
Jormungandr and Ouroboros,
|
|
masters of yoga, flexible enough to hold the pose
|
|
of curling around to bite their own tails.
|
|
I'd maybe get halfway there and fail,
|
|
collapse in a crumpled heap on the ground.
|
|
There are easier ways to have my foot in my mouth.
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
|