Poetry

Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
 
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
 
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
 
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
 
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
 
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
 
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me