When my blood turns into alcohol
I feign
And become a child
The gutter, my old enemy, now partners me
In her belly,
I have become an August visitor
Roaming in her guts and sharing guts,
Like a helpless fish in a good cook's pastry.
Words turn sporadic
Gushing like water, free at last from a broken pipe.
Occasionally meaningful,
But codes of years past,
Become open secrets in current seconds
Zeus' good gift
Suddenly, a Pandora's Box
A wounded lion never forgets his dungeon
And so, my body staggers to its
Weak,
Yet, my spirit high.
In my new state, new hobbies reveal
Knuckles need a soft touch
In my lowliness
'Did my knuckles get a paint job?'
Is more a rhetoric
'What happened earlier?'
I deem an answer,
But evidence never tell lies
I am a mother pig
Who whines after dinning on her baby
But dines again at a new dawn.
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