Poetry

 


They tied her up and
Dumped her in a dungeon,
Letting the hungry axe wait
Too long with its bloody tongue.

Its walls were dead, blindfolded,
Open and shut, no space for pink.
Pluck the day before you turn to stone
And bitter nuts dry on your tongue,
Awake between the crutches of
The stairs to the block, the red road,
Bulging red, like genitals, lips shiny,
A curse made in a factory of flesh.

Pluck the day, the green and blue smoke.
A sigh would rise up, keeping you alive,

Somehow
By some.
A few.
Few.