Shrug me that bold shoulder again,
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.
Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.
In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh