poetry, trails of thought

Life [re]born[e]

Life born[e] on wings of 

wingdings, galore –

curiously either/or;

never worn nor carried out,

nor sorried with,

nor – any

more – curried unkind, in any way 

at all.

And the rhymes of observation,

also strangely squared,

circle around me like vultured 

cultures of rare ingenuity:

I no longer care to live alon[e] this way;

I no longer care to bear –

all by myself –

the grizzly consequence

of insubstantial existing.

Instead, let me tend to you

as I tend to myself;

let my love – for your 

beautiful weird – 


right my life as entire as could be.

Let me see your body

as tender skin; as 


as cunt fine and deep:

no hunting,

no longer, 

for that solace cruel,

in ever so empty bed.


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