Figured one of us should probably put something up on here, so here's a little poem for now:
the pollen nested deep in his lungs
yellows every unmannered breath
every frantic sketch of passing breasts
disproportioned and smeared
with the guilt of always looking
in the wrong place
she sees his face
pale and dizzy from whiskey and
bottle-necked blood down below
she knows there's always more in tow
and when he sees her face
he looks for something more, and so
doesn't see a thing
left grasping at moments like black flies
from the tangles of his own drooling web
as wet hissing coughs
kick their boot heels into his bones
and smother stuttered pleas
for forgiveness
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