London Undergroundmy thighs are like maps for the London underground to which I’ve never been, but a savior one day will come to there and tell my story of faded lines of yellow and pink, bleached pink-on-black a herald traversing the wreckage of, refuse, like, sticking rats, and, stinking sausages for sale reminiscent of the aforementioned thighsLondon Underground
rank infested lagoons are where I live rank wrecked decay of empty Styrofoam cups of a lady with money made from stars cars slosh the heels of my ankle socks, now gray with wetness from puddles now swamps from liquid feeding rainbow gasoline.
Furyspike in my mouth made sharp by salivaFury
by
cocaine
smell
made from
chocolate
cacao bean
point to gum white pricks dangle, bone
fury finds a place to fester isolate a body part
mouth
arguably, most sensitive
sensitive to heat
to syringe heated needles scald
dark heat fire like ice
cubed into haves, my anger separates, like flexing
sinew of my mouth stretches stiff &
It truly means a lot.
*SkYe
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I have become what I promised myself I would never succumb to.
.....................................I am a statistic.
--
"The things I want to express are so beautiful and pure" --M. C. Escher
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Feel free to browse my gallery
Hmm... Is time standing still?
A Clockwork Orange, The Cure and Joy Division was new when I was at your age.
Rebecca = 1
Prostitutes = 0
:ssh:
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