Published: August 27, 2009

It fades, it fades.
The dark, it fades.
The scent ascends.

Existentialism.  Manure.

Your black heart is
Bitter on my tongue,
Your tongue.
Your idle hands are
Rank with air.

Barbarous hands,
Are your hands, my hands
And lips of poison
Are wet still with
The swagger, the swig.
Too much.

Enough.

Messenger, the messenger,
Whose messenger I’ll shoot.
Liars, lovers, lions,
I’m through.

O Mighty Me,
Paris, Narcissus,
Freud.
I fade, I fade.

Enough.
I feel it, too.