She incubates his larvae of words,
string them along her hair and wears the novel
like a crown of Christmas-jewels: the composition of bestowing.
Music molds from ears,
the pigeons aren't flying anymore,
instead, they walk, drink afternoons as if it were tea;
clothes hang from thin wires like bags of fat,
cleanse the street's perfume from angry men,
and a stranger's life is lost for a day's ration.
Knuckles bust, eyes swell, his love
is filthier than before and his lips rob the silvers
from her mouth, vomit her screams, her moans,
his flesh, her soul; he shudders in a whisper
you are beautiful
and she smiles, his name, slurring along with every syllable,
smearing every tick in the clock of his bedroom wall.














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