Men’s hands Seek woman’s necks, Like bony moths Banging their soft heads Against a flask of light. The innate bully Called survival, Falls through hoops dignity Until landing on the perfect victim. We can only love the happy And retarded; Or babies Who have no designs Against us. I remember everything- Evil lends me the photographs. My hands are udders of blood; All my excuses have fled To better egos. The fibrous moon of your face Pulls the unforgiving blanket Of green drowning over me. I cant apologize seriously As daily I pray to God Hell is full…
I enjoyed reading this. Very original visuals... bony moths banging their heads... hands are udders of blood...
