Saturday, June 2, 2018

4:45 A.M., Post 3 Hour Internet Chat

Its is a black ooze.
A shadow on the face
A slimy obscenity
A ripple in the fat flesh,

Blood terror, eye-stripping
Venom-winged whorish thighs.
And the vision distorts again
A new face, the old face
Not your face.

Your face. It's a plague. A funk.
You wish you could pick
it from your cheeks.
Believe me,
I wish you could too.

As much as I love that face.
The face I fell in love with
Things change. And stay the same.
You were always the same.
At the cheekbones.

It's late. I should sleep.
It's at times like this the poetry seeps
Creeps across the page
Like black ooze -- wholly unrelated --

Maybe I just need coffee.
Or a hot demon chick.

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