a man should die gaunt,
and not bloated and overdone,
there should be new words hidden,
in the shadows on his face,
and like a wine glass, in a perfect pitch, he breaks,
we're being dumped into order out of buckets of sea salt,
what was the first condiment?
but always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,
or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't
flowers are how plants laugh,
and not by joke or to ridicule,
i never saw my parents,
try to make a thing like me
in time in the bathroom mirror,
i learned to accept my body.
i got jumped into living by a coven of midwives,
under a dracula-caped eclipse,
like cutting through watermelon meat with a wire,
you shoot sick from the hip and never miss.
all the things inside me i assume,
are doing what they need to be doing,
and always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,
or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't.
always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,
or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't.
looks like a sky for shoeing horses under.
looks like a sky, of some kind
