Love, it taught me to hate: POETRY.

WET RANSOMED PILLOW

Colored fingertip tracing the liquid speck

on that floral veil,

My succor between the legs.

That night it was a ransomed baby

in my arms.

The aftertastes of waiting someone die

is not sweet.

Cannonballs are warning signs,

secret smiles to her.

I beamed. I dazzled.

His eyes went through me like gamma rays.

Im invisible. She isn’t.

And they say it’s worth every fucking spot

On my pillow

Well, it isn’t.

 

Love, it taught me to hate.

 

***********************************************************************************************

 

 STARS ARE SUICIDE WINKS

 

They’re like dandruffs in a cosmic sea of

nothingness.

They wink at me like Monroe does

when I try dipping my toes on that black,

eternal cloak:

The sanctity of Gods and

welcome rags for all-knowing trespassers,

soon are part of it.

 

The winking commences.

The enormous lost balloon, buoyant.

Slit my throat. Plunge my head.

Swim towards that dark vacuum

and forget the skylark

back home.

 

Floating.

Floating.

Morbid.

Gone.