when the crickets slap their knees
and beatbox at the moon
wrestle me to the floor and take
my creaking ankles
down
down
down
to ghosttown.
Where spurs litter the floor,
stick in the pads of my feet
and sing in the sticky blood
of my gretal crumbs-
and yours, they
leave a haphazard trail
that I can’t seem to follow anymore.
You can see straight down the diamond mountain
to the steaming pavement below
ripe and aching for
your bones my bones
stack like linking logs
against the hot tin mess of
machinery.
your cowboy boots, against my will
flash hard and deep and scar.
where are you, H?
Comments
-
this read flawlessy
your style so unique
i am so happy you are a favorite of mine
that way i can read some of the best writes
this place has
-
i loved the way this flowed! great imagry
-
this sounds a bit sensual
bby you're one of the best writers on this whole damn site CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?!
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??????
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