Dripping wine.
Dripping onto my tongue
like a catalyst.
My children will bite your dogs
in processionals
and bigotry,
filing their metamorphosis away
for another day,
while I lounge
reading Kafka.
Seventy steep forgivenesses
surely seem enough
don’t they?
Forty would suffice,
as long as they were stripes,
like bloody roman numerals
on your back.
And there’s a room
painted eggshell somewhere
that is full of
the unsuspecting,
and fortified
with ignorance,
to beat away their
pain.
Love, love your stuff. I hope you are getting manuscripts together because I want to see you published 🙂
You must be mad. No one sane could lounge with Kafka.
I think anytime Kafka is thrown into a sea of words, one screams angst. 🙂
You write well!
Be careful with wine…
I can feel your writing changing..
I sense that as well. She’ll be a giant insect any moment.
i will
partake of your
words
a heady drought
for my mind
instead of your
wine
i will instead
have a glass of dogs
blood
Love the room described, painted eggshell – evocative, makes me feel as if I am there. A room as muse, inspiration, or a place to land, or pounce?
Can I borrow some wine? You seem to have a secret never-ending stash…
I was just thinking the same thing 😉